The Pale Echo
The glass was broken. Not shattered into a thousand glittering shards, but split. A single, jagged line ran from the top corner to the bottom. It looked like a scar. Or a crack in the earth. Marcus stared at it. The kitchen was cold. The air smelled of wet wool and old dust. He held a cup of tea. It was cold. He did not drink. "You see it?" he asked. No one answered. The house was silent. The...
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