The Wistful Mirror
The rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, grey curtain that turned the moor into a sea of mud and heather, and I stood at the threshold of the stone cottage, watching the figure of my wife, Elara, recede into the mist, her back straight and her steps measured, as if she were walking toward a destination that existed only in her memory and not in the physical world before us. We had...
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