The Wistful Mirror
The question that kept Kavita Khan awake was not whether the Mirror of Aethel existed, but whether her name was still hers. She lay on the straw pallet in the barracks, the air heavy with damp wool and the metallic tang of old blood, listening to the wind tear at the canvas flaps outside. It was the winter of the strike, the year the mill owners had burned the barn and the receipts, leaving the...
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