The Wistful Saga
The rain hit the pavement in sheets. It was cold. It was wet. It was relentless. Tom stood by the window. He was seven years old. He held a glass vial. Inside the vial was a single drop of ink. It was black. It was viscous. It swirled slowly. The drop did not mix. It remained distinct. It was a perfect sphere. Tom watched the drop. He breathed. The air in the apartment was thin. It smelled of...
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