The Wistful Mirror
The tally was forty-three hours since the last audit, and the weight of the silence in Vault Seven was a physical thing, pressing against the eardrums like deep water. You counted the seconds between the hum of the ventilation system, a rhythmic thrum that had become the metronome of your life, to keep the loneliness at bay. The ledger in your hands, Clara’s final inventory of the Blackwood...
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