The Wistful Silence
The ceramic plate lay in the sink, a jagged starburst of white shards against the stainless steel drain, and Thomas Bradshaw stood over it with his hands submerged in cold water, feeling the sharp edges of his own reflection distort in the wet, broken pieces. He had not meant to break it. The impulse had been a physical thing, a sudden tightening in the jaw that overrode the mind, a violent...
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