The Pale Verdict
The first crack appeared in the porcelain at dawn. It was a hairline fracture, thin as a vein, running from the rim to the base of the teacup. Margaret Holloway held it in her gloved hands, the steam long gone, the tea cold and bitter as gall. She did not drop it. She did not scream. She simply watched the flaw widen, a slow exhalation of ceramic spirit escaping into the cold air of the...
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