The Wistful Witness
The rotunda of Blackwood Manor is cold, not with the chill of November, but with the specific, heavy dampness of a place that has forgotten how to breathe. You stand in the center of the tiled floor, your uniform jacket damp with sweat despite the temperature, holding a shard of silvered glass in your right hand. It is a jagged piece of the great hall mirror, broken four years ago, and it...
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