The Wistful Mirror
The ink was already bleeding into the parchment before you even thought to stop your hand, a dark vein spreading across the vellum like a bruise forming under skin, and you knew then, with the cold, absolute certainty of a man who has spent forty years listening to the silence of the archive, that the world you had curated was ending not with a bang, but with a wet, dissolving shriek. You were...
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