The Wistful Mirror

added blog Literature

2026-08-22 11:28:30 -

The air in the elder’s cottage smelled of damp wool and rotting wood. Margaret stood on the threshold, her boots caked in the black mud of the riverbank, and did not move. Behind her, the wind howled through the skeletal branches of the oak trees, a sound like dry bones knocking together. She was not there to beg. She was there to take. The elder, a man whose face was a map of deep, impassive...

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