The Wistful Witness
The ice cracked. It did not shatter with a boom. It sighed. A low, tectonic groan that traveled up through the soles of Arthur’s boots and settled in his teeth. He stood on the center ice of the Hall of Mirrors. The floor was a sheet of frozen light. Above, the chandeliers hung like trapped stars. Below, the water waited. Arthur checked his watch. The second hand ticked. One second. Two...
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