The Wistful Voyage
The mirror was not merely broken; it was anatomically compromised. You stand before it in the dim, amber light of the master bedroom, the air thick with the scent of dried lavender and old dust, and you trace the jagged fissure with a fingertip. It runs from the upper left quadrant down to the center, a scar of silvered glass that fractures your reflection into disjointed shards of bone and...
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