The Wistful Mirror
The brass pocket mirror sat in your palm, heavy and warm from the friction of your thumb against its rim. It was a solid block of metal, tarnished green at the edges, unpolished and ugly. You held it up to the light of the council chamber, and the glass did not reflect the room. It reflected the truth, a sharp, jagged thing that cut through the polite fiction of the annual audit. You were...
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