The Wistful Ashes
The porcelain urn sat on the windowsill of the high-rise apartment, its glaze cracked in a spiderweb pattern that caught the grey light of the city below. It was a delicate thing, white and thin-walled, holding nothing but a memory of smoke. Elara Vance stared at it for a long time, her reflection ghosting over the shattered surface, a double image of a woman who had learned to survive by...
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