The Wistful Mirror
You are holding the locket, Silas, and you know it, but your hands are shaking, which means you are afraid, and if you are afraid, then I am right. The air in the lobby of the Halcyon Tower is thick with the scent of industrial lemon cleaner and the stale, metallic taste of cold copper, a combination that has defined your existence for the past three years, ever since your mother’s hospital...
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