The Wistful Mirror
The plate must be finished by dawn, Elias Thorne told the empty room, his voice cracking against the silence like a stone thrown into still water. The clock on the mantel, a heavy brass thing he had repaired for a fortune three years ago, ticked with a rhythmic, metallic insistence that seemed to mock the stillness of the workshop. It was the winter solstice, the longest night of the year, and...
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