The Wistful Mirror
The dream was not a dream. It was a wall of iron. I stood before it. The metal was cold. It smelled of rust and old blood. The wall stretched up into a darkness that had no stars. It stretched down into a floor that was not floor but void. I was Edward. I was always Edward. I wore the grey robes of the Keeper. My hands were bound. Not with rope. With silence. The Gatekeeper stood on the other...
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