The Golden Mirror
The fog in Harrowgate did not merely obscure the street; it swallowed the light whole, turning the gas lamps into bleeding points of amber in a sea of grey wool, and it was into this suffocating, silent medium that Elias Thorne stepped, his hands trembling not from the November cold but from the sudden, violent fracture of the object he had held for forty years, the small, brass-handled mirror...
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