The Wistful Silence
The mirror shatters before the scream finishes forming. It happens in the foyer of the house you inherited from your father, a house that smells of damp wool and old regrets. The glass does not fall in a single cascade. It explodes outward, a starburst of silver shards that pin themselves to the wallpaper, the floorboards, the heavy velvet curtains. You stand in the center of it, your hand...
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