He'd been meaning to clear it out for months. The space was a graveyard of junk: rusted candelabras, moth-eaten curtains, a cracked violin missing its strings. He maneuvered through the clutter, his boots kicking up dust that danced in the slanted light of a single bulb. Then he saw ita mirror, propped against the far wall, half-buried under a tarp. It was tall, nearly six feet, framed in black ebony carved with twisting patterns that looked like vines, or maybe runes. He couldn't tell. The glass was clouded with grime, dulling its surface to a smoky haze.
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