The Wistful Mirror

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2026-08-22 14:24:11 -

The count of your pulse was the only task that mattered now. One, two, three. The rhythm was irregular, a stuttering metronome in the temple of your skull. You sat in the narrow cot of the holding cell, the concrete floor cold against the soles of your boots, and weighed the mirror in your palm. It was a small thing, a hand-held piece of silvered glass framed in tarnished brass, but it felt...

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