The Distant Garden
The cup was cracked. It sat on the table. A fine hairline fracture ran from rim to base. A white vein in the blue porcelain. Margaret held it. Her fingers were cold. The house was warm. Or it should have been. The fire had died. "Did you see it?" she asked. Thomas looked up. He was eating soup. The spoon clinked against the bowl. "See what?" "The crack." He wiped his mouth. "I see the cup." "It...
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