The Wistful Mirror
The light in the basement is not natural, but a sickly, amber hum from the fluorescent tubes that flicker with the irregularity of a dying pulse, casting long, distorted shadows against the metal shelving that stretch into the dark like the ribs of a leviathan. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, and your knuckles are white as you grip the edge of the steel cart, your mind racing not...
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