The Wistful Mirror
The frost had killed the late beans in the field behind the church, turning the soil into a hard, grey crust that bit at Lucien Etienne’s boots as he walked. He was twelve, and his hands were raw from the cold, the skin cracked and bleeding where the wind had scoured it raw. He moved through the village with the quiet urgency of a thief, his eyes fixed on the shattered window of the old chapel,...
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