The Distant Garden
The clock on the wall ticked. It was a dry, wooden sound. Like a bone breaking. I sat in the small office. The light was gray. It pressed against the glass. I looked at the object on my desk. It was a porcelain vase. Blue and white. It was cracked. A hairline fracture ran through the center. I ran my finger over it. The glaze was cold. It bit into my skin. I had found it in the archives. Box...
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