The Wistful Campus
The glass does not break. It never breaks. That is the rule, and the rule is the thing that eats us. I am twelve years old, and I am standing in the hallway of the Ashworth estate, my hands trembling against the cold frame of the mirror that hangs above the mantel in the study. My father forbids me to look. He says the glass is cursed, that it shows a future death, and that to look is to invite...
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