The Wistful Mirror
Act I Radmila Karamyan, a border warden with twelve years of service on the Swahili coast, stood in the shattered glass of the Wistful Mirror, the relic reflecting not her face but the path she had abandoned. The fog in the observatory’s midnight office was thick, smelling of ozone and wet pine, a physical weight that pressed against the telegraph exchange where the clicks of the mine’s closing...
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