The Wistful Mirror
The glass shattered not with a bang, but with a wet, sickening crack, like a rib breaking under the weight of a slow, inevitable collapse. I stood in the center of the workshop, my hands still raised in a clumsy, protective gesture, the fragments of the convex lens scattering across the oil-stained concrete in a constellation of jagged, silver stars. It was a mirror, or what remained of one, a...
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