The Wistful Mirror
The mirror did not shatter; it exhaled. One moment, the antique glass in the hallway of the Whitmore estate was a dark, polished void reflecting the dust motes dancing in the afternoon light, and the next, it bloomed with a web of fractures that did not spread outward but inward, folding the reflection of the room into a kaleidoscope of impossible geometries. I stood frozen, my hand still...
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