The Wistful Dinner
You wake in the hall of mirrors. The glass is cold. It bites. You are wet. Not with sweat. With rain. Old rain. The kind that smells of iron and rot. You look down. You wear armor. It is heavy. It is dented. You remember the weight. You remember the pain. Who are you? You do not know. The name is gone. The face in the mirror is not yours. It is a stranger’s. A soldier’s. The eyes are hollow....
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