The Pale Fracture
The morning the glass left the house, it did not shatter, but it vanished, a cold absence in the air where the sun used to catch its facets. Thomas Ashworth stood in the doorway of the kitchen, his small hands still gripping the strap of the satchel that had held the vessel, now empty and trembling. The kitchen was dim, the heavy curtains drawn against the pale, relentless light of the valley...
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