The Pale Fracture
The glass was cold. It sat on the iron table, a thin cylinder of pale light. Elias touched it. The surface was smooth. It did not give. He looked at the crack. It ran from the base to the rim. A fracture. White. Sharp. Like a vein under skin. He picked it up. It weighed nothing. It weighed everything. The room was gray. The walls breathed. Not moved. Breathed. In and out. The air tasted of dust...
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