The Wistful Letter
The ledger is wrong, Clara whispered, her voice thin as the smoke from the office heater, and you woke with the taste of iron on your tongue. The obsidian mirror sat on the nightstand, its surface fractured by a hairline crack that ran from the top left to the bottom right, a scar that seemed to deepen every time you used it. You had not slept in three days, for the mirror demanded a day of...
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