The Wistful Silence
The glass did not break. It should have. You had hit it with the back of your hand, a knuckle that had taken a brick to the face in ’09 and never quite healed right, and yet the surface held. It just stared back. The reflection in the mirror was a half-second behind you. You raised your left hand. The man in the glass raised his right. You froze. He did not. He stood there, still, his face a...
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