The Wistful Mirror
The ledger on the desk held forty-three entries, each one a small, dry scratch of graphite against the paper, recording the slow bleed of Elias Thorne’s reputation into the indifferent soil of 1893 London. The room smelled of stale tobacco and the metallic tang of the broken mirror that sat in the center of the table, its shards arranged in a deliberate, jagged circle that Elias had spent the...
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