The Golden Crossing
The jar is on the table. It is cracked. You know it is cracked before you even look at it properly. You can feel the hairline fracture running through the glass, a thin white scar that splits the amber liquid inside. You stand in the center of the kitchen. The floorboards are cold under your bare feet. The house is silent. It is a silence that has weight. It presses against your eardrums. You...
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