The Faded Sutra
The tablet was blue. It was the color of a bruise that would not fade. It sat on the oak table, smooth and cold, a square of compressed grief. It was breakfast. The light in the kitchen was thin, filtering through the lace curtains that had seen better decades. Margaret Holloway stared at the tablet. She did not touch it. She watched the dust motes dance in the beam. They were silent. They were...
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