The Wistful Mirror
My hand was shaking as I held the quill, the ink bleeding into the parchment in a slow, arterial red. The study smelled of old paper and the sharp, metallic tang of fear. Outside, the wind rattled the windowpanes of the University of Halloway, a sound like dry bones clicking together. I am Elias Thorne, thirty-four years old, a linguist who has spent the last decade chasing a ghost in the...
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