The Wistful Letter
The mirror was cracked. Not shattered, just fractured, a spiderweb of white lines radiating from the center where I had struck it with my fist three nights ago. I looked into it and saw a face that did not belong to me. Or perhaps it belonged to a version of me that the world had decided to erase. The glass did not care. It held my reflection steady, indifferent, a constant witness to my...
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