The Wistful Mirror
The ink was black and thick, smelling of iron and old blood. It stained the thumb. I held the ledger open to the final page, the numbers blurred by the steam rising from the kettle. Outside, the rain lashed the windowpane, a relentless, industrial drumming that shook the dust from the high beams of the attic. I had come here to count. To verify the debt. To prove that the silence was not a...
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