The Wistful Saga
The glass is warm in your hand. It is the only thing in the kitchen that is not cold. The ice has melted, leaving a wet, circular stain on the wooden table. You are twelve years old. You are sitting in the shadow of the pantry door, watching the light shift across the floorboards. Your father is not here. Your mother is in the garden, digging. The sound of her shovel hitting the earth is a...
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