The Wistful Atlas
The glass beads in the box are not whole. You know this. You have known it since you picked up the first one, the one that felt warm and heavy in your palm, only to shatter under the slight pressure of your thumb. It did not break with a sharp crack. It dissolved. A fine, gritty dust. A whisper of green. You swept it into your other hand. You looked at your friend. He was smiling. He was always...
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