The Distant Threshold
You are standing in the pantry of the St. Jude’s Orphanage, the air thick with the scent of boiled potatoes and damp wool, and you are holding a ceramic bowl that has been cracked down the center. It is not a large break, merely a hairline fracture that runs from the rim to the base, a jagged white scar against the blue glaze. You have held this bowl for forty years. You have washed it, dried...
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