The Wistful Mountain
The ceramic plate sits on the workbench, a shard of blue glaze catching the gray light of the factory floor, and you hold it with a tenderness that feels like a crime against the very nature of the object. It is a Tuesday in late October, 1914, and the air inside the Holloway Porcelain Works smells of wet clay and the sharp, metallic tang of fear. You are not a poet, nor are you a hero; you are...
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