The Wistful Mirror
The amber in the vial pulsed with a rhythm that matched your own heartbeat, a slow, viscous throb that seemed to pull the air from the room. You sat alone in the dim light of your study, the only sound the tick of the mantel clock and the faint, sibilant whisper rising from the glass. It was not a voice, not exactly, but a texture of sound that scraped against the inside of your skull,...
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