The Wistful Mirror
The rain had not stopped for three days, turning the gravel path to your mother’s cottage into a slurry of mud and broken twigs. You were forty-two, a cartographer for the Crown, and you had come to say goodbye, though you suspected you were actually there to be dismissed from your life’s work. Your mother, Margaret, lay in the bed by the window, her breathing shallow and wet, her eyes fixed on...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews