The Wistful Mirror
The smell of rosemary hung heavy in the air, thick as velvet and just as suffocating. It was the scent of preservation, of things kept from rot, but in the cramped kitchen of the house on Elmsworth Lane, it smelled only of stagnation. Eleanor stood before the stove, her hands moving with a mechanical precision that belied the storm churning beneath her ribs. She was a woman of forty, though the...
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