The Wistful Mirror
The rain hit the slate roof of the estate with a steady, rhythmic drumming that had become the only clock Thomas knew. He stood in the center of the library, the air thick with the scent of damp wool and old paper. His hands were wrapped in white cloth. The bandages were tight, soaked through with sweat and something darker. He looked at the glass case on the far wall. Inside sat the medal. The...
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