The Wistful Mirror

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2026-08-22 03:48:43 -

The fog that rose from the River Avon each morning did not merely obscure the water; it swallowed the world in a thick, grey wool that felt less like weather and more like a living membrane separating my existence from the rest of creation, and as I stood there in the damp chill of my study, watching the mist coil around the ancient oaks that lined the bank, I felt the distinct and terrifying...

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