The Wistful Petal
You are sitting in the kitchen of your half-sister’s house, holding a bowl of apricot jam that has turned into a jagged, crystalline lattice of sugar and fruit pulp, and you are trying to remember if you ever loved her, or if you merely tolerated the weight of her existence until the day you decided to break her. The jar is cracked, not from impact, but from the internal pressure of the...
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