The Wistful Mirror
The ink on the parchment was still wet when the world cracked. I sat in my high-backed chair, the oak grain worn smooth by generations of scribes, and watched the air tear open like wet paper. It was not a storm. It was a silence. A terrible, heavy silence that swallowed the sound of the quill scratching against the vellum. I had been copying the Ledger of Names for forty years. My fingers were...
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