The Wistful Mirror
The rain fell in sheets. It hammered the tin roof of the orphanage. Leo pressed his face against the cold glass. He looked out at the street. The cobblestones glistened. The gas lamps flickered. They burned orange in the dark. He was seven years old. He held a small mirror in his hand. It was cracked. A spider web of fractures ran across the glass. He did not see his own face. He saw the...
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews