The Golden Mirror
Clifford Barlow looked back on the week before the festival, a time when the light in the wire room of the brokerage had turned the color of old brass. He had wanted only to clean the brooch. It was a small thing, gold, shaped like a wheat sheaf, but it had tarnished black since Margaret died. He touched the metal, and the darkness spread instantly, a chemical burn that defied the polish. He...
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