The Wistful Mirror
The ink on the letter was still wet when you found it, a dark smear that seemed to pulse against the heavy cream paper, smelling faintly of iron and the damp earth of the basement where the archive was kept. You were not supposed to be down there, not after the third bell had rung for the night shift, but the hum of the ventilation shafts had a rhythm that matched your own anxious heartbeat, a...
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