The rain did not fall so much as it hung, a gray curtain drawn tight against the glass of the train car. Margaret watched the tracks blur into a smear of mud and iron. She was not looking at the scenery. She was looking at the object in her lap. It was a jar. Thick, heavy glass, yellowed by age and the acid of what it had once held. Inside, suspended in a viscous, amber liquid, was a heart. Not...
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