The Wistful Mirror
The mirror did not break; it surrendered. That is the only way you can describe it, looking back now, in the sterile, humming silence of the office where the air tastes of recycled ozone and old fear. You held the frame in your hands, a heavy thing of dark wood and tarnished brass, a relic from a life you had buried under layers of new soil and new names. It was a vessel for your reflection,...
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