The Wistful Mirror
Act I Does a mirror know when it is broken? Teresa Sartori held the cracked bronze disc against her chest, the metal cold as river stone, and listened to the heavy iron door grind against its stone frame. The vault was a tomb of dust and silence, the air heavy with old paper and rust. She was thirty years old, an archivist disgraced by a single error in the imperial ledger, and she had lived in...
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