The Golden Mirror
The dream was always the same: a room of peeling yellow wallpaper, and in the center, a mirror framed in tarnished gold. Elias Thorne stood before it, his reflection solid, his eyes hollow pits of shadow. He woke in the cold damp of his boarding house in 1912, the sweat cooling on his skin, the weight of his father’s legacy pressing against his chest like a physical stone. He was thirty-two, a...
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