The Wistful Mirror
The mirror in the Shattered Hall did not lie, but it did not tell the whole truth either. It showed me as I was, forty-two years old, a border warden with a stiff neck and a bad knee, but it showed me also as I had been, a child of eight, standing in the mud of the old city gates. The rule was simple, etched into the stone above the frame: bleed into the glass, and the truth will bleed back...
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