The Wistful Mirror
The glass is not a mirror, Elias, it is a container, and you are leaking. Clara said this while standing in the doorway of the loft, her arms crossed over the white tunic she wore to work, the fabric stiff with dried sweat and the metallic tang of the hospital’s antiseptic air. She held a manila envelope in her left hand, the corner of it bent and soft from being carried in her pocket, and she...
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