The Wistful Voyage
The jar is on the counter, and it is broken, and you are standing in the kitchen of the house you are not supposed to be in, holding the shards of your own making with a stillness that feels less like calm and more like the suspended animation of a deer caught in headlights. You look at the glass, which is thick and amber, stained with the residue of honey that was never meant for you, and you...
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