The Wistful Saga
The jar is cracked. You know this. The glass has a hairline fracture running from the rim to the base, a jagged white line that catches the light of the dying sun. It holds your life, or what is left of it. A thick, amber liquid. Honey, maybe, or syrup, or something darker. Something you made. You don’t remember making it. You only remember the weight of the jar in your hands, the way it pulled...
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