The Pale Altar
The mirror in the dressing room was not a mirror, but a pane of polished obsidian set into the wood paneling, and it did not reflect my face. It showed the room as it was, empty of me, save for the dust motes dancing in the shafts of afternoon light. I stood before it, adjusting the collar of my silk blouse, a garment of such delicate weave it felt less like fabric and more like a second skin...
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