The Pale Fracture
The glass did not shatter so much as it sighed—a long, pale exhalation that began at the centre and propagated outward in veins of silver, delicate as frost on a winter window, terrible in its precision. Eleanor stood before it with her teacup suspended halfway to her lips, watching the fracture spread through the showroom pane of the Mayfair antique shop, and she felt, impossibly, that it was...
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