The Wistful Mirror

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2026-08-20 15:25:08 -

The air in the cellar tasted of rust and wet wool. Silas sat on a crate. He was nine. Or ten. Time moved like sludge here. Thick. Slow. Above him, the floorboards groaned. The house settled. It was the old Ashworth house. It had stood on the hill for three generations. Now it shook. The clock on the wall ticked. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. It was a brass clock. Grandfather’s clock. It weighed two...

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