The Wistful Mirror
The letter lay on the desk, the ink still wet, the paper cheap and fibrous under your fingertips. It was a standard Ministry directive, stamped with the black seal of the Archivist General, but the subject line made the cold air in the room feel suddenly thin. You were Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a senior archivist who had spent the last two decades dusting the dead and filing the...
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