The Wistful Mirror
The glass did not reflect; it absorbed. This was the first thing Elias Vane noticed when he hauled the massive pane out of the crate in the center of the moor, the wind tearing at his coat like a hungry dog. It was a slab of obsidian so dark it seemed to pull the gray light of the afternoon into its depths, swallowing the horizon behind it. He had bought it from an estate in Prague, a relic of...
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