The Wistful Mirror
The count began at dawn, as it always did. Thomas Bradshaw stood before the long oak table in the administrative wing, his fingers moving over the ledger with a mechanical precision that had worn the skin of his thumbs raw. There were forty-two sacks of grain to be logged, forty-two heavy burlap weights that smelled of damp earth and stale corn. He marked each one. One. Two. Three. The...
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