The Wistful Skyline
The porcelain shatters against the foundation of the rectory, a bright, jag scream in the humid July air. You stand in the doorway, the heavy oak door swinging shut behind you with a finality that feels less like a conclusion and more like a severing. The shards of the blue-and-white vase, a relic from your late mother’s collection, glitter on the wet gravel like fallen stars. They are...
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