The Wistful Mirror
You wake in the blue, pre-dawn silence of the gallery, the air thick with the scent of dust and the faint, metallic tang of old varnish, and you stand before the large, triptych canvas that has defined your career and now seems to stare back at you with a hollow, accusatory gaze, the paint cracked not by age but by the sheer weight of the lies you have painted into its surface, a mirror not of...
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