The Distant Legend
The apple sits on the windowsill. It is red, perfect, and untouched. You look at it from the high chair in the kitchen, a place that feels less like a home and more like a gilded cage of glass and mahogany. The air is still. The dust motes dance in the shafts of afternoon light, indifferent to the tension pulling at your chest. You are Maren. You are small. You are the daughter of the house,...
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