The Faded Guest
You have always known that the glass is not the object, but the wound, and yet you hold it in your hands with the trembling reverence of a priest handling a relic of some forgotten god, feeling the cold bite of the silica against your palms, a coldness that seeps past the skin and settles into the marrow, a chill that has nothing to do with the winter air howling outside the window of this...
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