The Golden Mirror
The glass shard sits in your palm, cold and sharp enough to bite through the skin if you press it too hard. It is a sliver of mirror, no larger than a thumbnail, but the reflection it holds is fractured, twisting the fluorescent light of the room into jagged, golden shards. You are Elias Thorne, forty-five years old, and you are sitting in Room 4B of St. Jude’s State Psychiatric Facility, a...
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