The Golden Scar
The glass cracked. Not shattered. Just a hairline fracture, spiderwebbing from the base to the rim. I held it up to the light. The light bent. It went wrong. I am a maker. I know glass. I know its temper. I know when it is ready to break and when it is ready to sing. This piece was ready to break. But not yet. I am Elias. I live in the Grey Quarter. The sky here is always the color of wet ash....
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