The Wistful Dinner
The plate cracked. It did not shatter. It merely split down the center, a clean fissure running through the porcelain like a dried riverbed. Elias held the two halves in his hands. The steam still rose, curling upward in thin, gray wisps that vanished into the cold air of the dining room. He did not drop them. He did not scream. He simply held the broken vessel, feeling the jagged edges bite...
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