The Wistful Mirror

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2026-08-23 08:55:53 -

The dream is always the same. You are standing in a room made of water, the ceiling a sheet of oil-slicked darkness, and the floor is a map of Oakhaven drawn in black ink. But the ink is moving. It crawls like veins, like roots, like the slow pulse of a dying heart. You try to touch it, but your hand passes through, cold and numb. Then the water rises, and you are drowning in your own...

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