The Wistful Mirror
The glass in the village hall was old. It had been there before the road was paved. It had been there before the church steeple cracked in the winter of your grandfather’s birth. You know this because the elders told you. They told you while you stood in the corner, hands in pockets, breath fogging the cold air. You were not supposed to be there. You were an outsider. A stranger who had walked...
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