The Wistful Mirror
The mist clung to the heather of the highland moors like a shroud woven from the breath of the dead, a damp, grey veil that obscured the horizon and softened the jagged edges of the ancient stone circles into mere suggestions of geometry. Elara walked, her boots sinking into the peat with a wet, sucking sound that seemed to echo the hollow ache in her chest, a rhythmic thud that matched the...
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