The Pale Echo
The glass shattered against the wall with a sound like a bone snapping. Margaret did not flinch. She stood in the center of the living room, holding the jagged remnant of the vase in her left hand. The other pieces lay scattered across the Persian rug, sharp and glittering under the harsh light of the overhead fixture. It was a small thing. A ceramic piece from a flea market in Prague. But the...
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