The Wistful Witness

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2026-08-20 06:56:47 -

"Look at you." Margaret’s voice was flat. It was the voice she used for the weather, for the grocery list, for the slow, grinding erosion of her own body. She stood by the window of the bedroom. The glass was cold against her forehead. Outside, the rain in Portland was a gray sheet, blurring the streetlamps into halos of sickly yellow. "I looked at you," I said. "You looked at the mirror," she...

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