The Distant Promise
The porcelain cup did not shatter. It broke, which is a different thing, a slower and more deliberate kind of ruin. Margaret stood in the center of the factory floor, the shards of her own reflection scattering across the damp concrete like a constellation of broken teeth. The steam from the molding presses hissed in the background, a constant, rhythmic exhale that seemed to mock the stillness...
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