The Wistful Mirror

added blog Literature

2026-08-22 21:50:02 -

The dream was always the same. My father’s hands, large and red-knuckled, gripping a gear that did not exist in the real world, twisting until the metal screamed. I woke in the blue dark of the workshop, the smell of brass filings and cold iron heavy in my throat. It was 1912, and the winter solstice was three days away. I was forty years old, and I wanted the cathedral clock to chime at noon....

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