The Faded Quadrant

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2026-08-20 09:17:10 -

The mirror in the attic was not a mirror. It was a pane of dark, still water that did not ripple when the wind rattled the shingles below. Thomas stood before it, his breath shallow, his fingers trembling against the cold iron frame. He was twelve years old, though he felt ancient, his bones heavy with a sorrow that had no name. The room smelled of dust and dried lavender, the scent of his...

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