The Wistful Mirror
The glass you carry is not a mirror, though it serves the function of one with a fidelity that borders on the grotesque. It is a shard, jagged and thin as a winter leaf, bound in leather that has long since cracked and bled salt into the grain. You hold it against your chest like a talisman, or perhaps a wound, and you walk the moor. The wind here does not blow; it screams, a low, tectonic...
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