The Wistful Mirror
The attic door sticks, as it always does, requiring a firm shove against the swollen oak before it yields with a groan that seems to vibrate in the floorboards below. I am twelve years old, and I have been climbing these stairs every night for the past month, not to sleep, but to stand before the mirror that hangs in the corner of the room, a tall, oval thing framed in dark, peeling wood that...
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