The Wistful Mirror
The mirror was broken. Not shattered, not cracked in a single jagged line, but fractured into a hundred tiny, trembling islands of glass. It hung in the hallway of the apartment on Fifth Avenue, a relic of my mother’s last days, a ghost trapped in silver. I stood before it, adjusting the collar of my silk shirt. The fabric was cool against my neck, a luxury I could no longer afford. The...
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