The Wistful Mirror
The candle guttered, casting long, trembling shadows against the warped floorboards of the cottage. Elara sat before the loom, her fingers numb and stiff, threading the indigo wool through the warp with a precision that felt less like art and more like surgery. Outside, the wind howled through the bare branches of the oak trees that lined the main street of Oakhaven, a sound that seemed to...
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