The Wistful Ashes
The mirror in the hallway had been cracked for three years, a jagged lightning bolt splitting the reflection of Eleanor Vance into two distinct, disjointed halves, and she stood before it now in the blue pre-dawn light, adjusting the collar of her grey wool shawl with hands that trembled not from cold, but from the sheer, crushing weight of the silence that had settled over the house of...
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