The Pale Garden
The glass shattered not with a crash, but with a sigh, a long, high-pitched whine that seemed to tear the air of the workshop clean in two. You stand in the center of the room, the air thick with the smell of dust and old varnish, and watch the shards of the mirror—your only true companion in the city’s grey throat—scatter across the stone floor like the scales of a fallen angel. This is the...
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