The Wistful Incense
The rain hits the glass. It sounds like static. You stand in the corridor. The floor is wet. Your boots are heavy. The water seeps into the leather. It soaks the wool of your trousers. You do not wipe your face. You do not look down. The mirror hangs on the wall. It is cracked. A spider web of fractures runs across the glass. Your reflection is split. Your face is a mask. It is not your face....
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