The Faded Portrait
The porcelain plate shatters. It does not fall. It explodes. A constellation of white shards erupts from the center of the table, scattering across the floorboards of the carriage like frozen stars. You watch them fly. You watch the dust settle. You do not flinch. Your hands remain folded in your lap, trembling only in the fine, high-frequency oscillation that precedes the collapse of a...
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