The Wistful Mirror
"Look at the glass, Elias. Look at it." Margaret’s voice was thin, stripped of its usual velvet warmth. It cut through the fog that hung over the valley like a wet shroud. Elias did not look. He looked at his hands. They were trembling. Not with cold. The air was warm, thick with the scent of ozone and crushed mint. They trembled because the world was wrong. Or perhaps, he was. The village of...
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