The Golden Mirror
The letter was on the bench, soaked through. "Give it back," the note read. "You have no right to keep it." It was signed in Clara’s sister’s cramped hand. Margaret. She had never liked me. She said I was too quiet, too much like the dead things I spent my days repairing. I held the paper until the ink blurred. Outside, the wind hammered the shop window, a rhythmic pounding that matched the...
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