The Pale Fracture
The glass does not break. It simply ceases to hold. I am sitting in the antechamber of the Ministry of Continuity, waiting for the quarterly review of my structural integrity. The room is a cathedral of white marble and silent, humming servers, a place where the air tastes of ozone and old paper. I hold a shard of obsidian in my left hand, a jagged piece of a vase that shattered three days ago...
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