The Golden Mirror
The rain has not stopped for three days, and in the low, damp cellar of the Whitmore estate, where the air tastes of wet stone and old dust, you are holding the shards of the golden mirror in your hands, feeling the cold bite of the glass against your calloused palms, a sensation that is so sharp and immediate it feels less like an object and more like a wound that has just been reopened, and...
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