The Wistful Mirror
Thorne, you are drifting again. Director Halloway’s voice cut through the hum of the server room, sharp and dry as the dust that settled on our shoulders. He stood in the doorway, his tie perfectly knotted, his face a mask of professional concern that hid a deeper, colder irritation. I was forty-five years old, and for the last three years, I had been the only one who heard the Echo. The...
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