The Faded Alibi
The mortar cracked. It did not shatter. It did not explode. It simply gave way, a hairline fracture spreading through the white porcelain like a vein of ice in a frozen lake. Margaret stared at the bowl. The blue rim was intact. The center was broken. She held the piece in her hand. It was cold. It was sharp. It was hers. The kitchen was silent. The clock on the mantel ticked. One second. Two....
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