The Wistful Mirror
My hands were shaking as I poured the morphine into the syringe. The liquid was clear, cold, and it smelled faintly of antiseptic and old brass. I am Ignacio Herrera, and I have kept the fires of this estate burning for twelve years, a duty that now feels heavier than the debt I owe for the ladder. The infirmary is a place of white tiles and humming machinery, a modern temple where the old...
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