The Pale Fracture
You are holding it. You know this with a certainty that bypasses thought, a bone-deep knowing that settles in your gut before your mind can catch up. The object is small. It fits in the palm of your left hand. It is a shard of ice, but it does not melt. It is white. It is pale. It is cold. You are in the Hall of Mirrors. The air smells of ozone and old pennies. "Look at it," says Julian. He is...
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