The Distant Clue
The porcelain shard was cold against the inside of my palm, a jagged piece of the blue-and-white bowl my wife had cherished, the one that had sat on the mantelpiece for thirty years, a silent sentinel to the domestic peace we had built in the quiet, rain-slicked town of Ashworth, a piece of pottery that now felt less like a fragment of a vessel and more like a splinter of bone, a physical...
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