The Wistful Mirror
The rain had not stopped for three days, and the courtyard of Thorne Hall was a slick, black mirror reflecting the grey sky, a surface that Elias Thorne could not bear to look at directly because it showed him only the wet, shivering shape of a man who had nowhere left to stand. He stood by the iron gate, his hands wrapped around a rusted key that had hung from his neck for forty years, the...
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