The Golden Mirror
The house at the end of Blackwood Lane did not burn, in the way that people expect fires to burn, with a roar of orange fury and a scent of acrid smoke that clings to the nose like a bad memory; instead, it exhaled a thick, cloying perfume of burnt sugar and caramelized fruit, a sweet, suffocating aroma that rose from the windows of the kitchen like a spirit escaping a bottle, filling the quiet...
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