The Wistful Mirror
The iron gate groaned open, a sound like a dying whale, and the fog rolled in from the valley floor, thick and white as curdled milk. I stepped through, my boots sinking into the wet moss, and felt the cold seep up through the soles, a physical weight that anchored me to the earth. Behind me, the safety of the city, the hum of electric lights, the predictable rhythm of my desk at the textile...
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