The Golden Mirror
The glass did not show you your face. It showed Silas. You stood in the attic of St. Jude’s, the air thick with the scent of mildew and old paper, and watched the boy’s eyes track your movement. He was seven when he died, or so the file said, though the reflection in the Golden Mirror was ageless, a pale, hungry thing trapped behind the mercury. You pressed your palm against the cold frame....
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