The Wistful Mirror
The night bus does not stop for the living, only for the dead. Mieczyslaw Wozniak stood at the window of the museum’s security booth, his breath fogging the glass as the last bus of the run rumbled past, its tires hissing against the wet asphalt of the lake settlement. He was thirty-two, though the years spent watching over the exhibits had carved the hollows under his eyes deep enough to hold...
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