The Distant Affair
The rain lashed the stone. It was a cold, grey wash. "Is it done?" I asked. My voice was thick. It tasted of iron and old dust. Father did not look up. He stood by the hearth. The fire was low. It barely lit the room. He held the mirror in his hands. It was small. A hand mirror. The frame was silver. It was tarnished now. Dark spots spread like bruises on the metal. "It is done," he said. His...
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