The Wistful Skyline
The jar sat on the counter, unopened, its glass rim catching the grey light of the afternoon. You have been staring at it for an hour, or perhaps two. Time has lost its rigid architecture here, in this kitchen that smells of wet wool and the faint, metallic tang of rain against the windowpanes. The label is peeling, just a corner, curling like a dried leaf. Inside, the preserve is not jam, not...
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