The Wistful Throne
You hold the shard. It is not a gem. It is a piece of blue glass, jagged and sharp, pulled from the wreckage of a streetlamp that shattered last night. You keep it in your left hand, palm up, as if offering a communion wafer. The glass is cold. It cuts the skin. You do not pull your hand away. You are walking. The road is long and straight, cutting through the pine forest that borders the...
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