The Wistful Mirror
The hammer bit into the bronze, and the salt air tasted of copper and old blood. I stood in the hall, my hands slick with sweat, staring at the reflection that was not mine. It showed Nikos, thin and hollow-eyed, his face pressed against the glass from the other side. The mirror had been in our family for three generations, a duty polished into shine, but tonight it felt like a wound. I was...
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