The Wistful Mirror

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2026-08-24 11:14:17 -

The theodolite sat in my hands, heavy as a sack of wet sand, its brass fittings cold against my palms despite the midday sun. I adjusted the spirit level, watching the bubble tremble in its vial, a small, perfect circle of mercury refusing to center. Below me, the Blackwood Ridge dropped away into a fog that smelled of pine resin and old stone. I was forty-two years old, a senior surveyor for...

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