The Wistful Mirror
Act I "You are late, Saisunee," the voice said, not from the room, but from the depth of the glass, three seconds after Saisunee Phromma had already spoken the words into the empty air. The reflection in the cracked mirror above the washbasin was a ghost of his own movement, a lagging double that wore his face with a delay so precise it felt like a wound. He was forty-five, a scholar of local...
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