The Distant Summer
The iron plate slips from your hands and shatters against the tiled floor, sending a constellation of white porcelain shards skittering across the damp, cold kitchen. The sound is not a crash but a sharp, staccato tear, like the ripping of a canvas or the breaking of a bone. You do not flinch. You do not gasp. You simply stand there, your hands trembling at your sides, staring at the ruin of...
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