The Wistful Throne
The shattering of the porcelain bowl did not sound like an accident, but rather like the cracking of a rib in a body that had been held too tightly for too long, a sound that resonated not just in the sterile, high-ceilinged room of the university archive but in the marrow of my bones, a vibration that traveled upward through the soles of my shoes and settled in the center of my chest where my...
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