The Wistful Ashes
The first crack appeared in the porcelain not with a sound, but with a silence that had weight. It was a fine, hairline fracture running from the rim to the base of the cup, splitting the white glaze into two distinct halves. In the Grand Hall of the Ministry of Continuity, where the air was scrubbed of dust and history alike, such imperfections were not merely defects. They were crimes....
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