The Golden Mirror
The ink was already bleeding into the cotton of the page as I pressed the nib, a dark stain spreading like a bruise under the skin of my hand, and I realized with a cold, damp shock that I could not lift the pen without tearing the sheet, so I left it there, a black tear in the white, and stared at the oak tree through the window where the leaves were rustling in a unison that had no wind to...
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