The Faded Chronicle
The glass shatters. You are standing in the basement. The air is cold and smells of damp concrete and old paper. You hold the fragment in your hand. It is sharp. It is wet. "Put it down," says Martha. You do not put it down. You look at Martha. She is sitting on the folding chair. She is watching you. Her face is calm. "It’s broken," you say. "Yes," she says. "It is broken." The room is small....
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