The Distant Summer
The chalice does not break in your hand, but in the silence of the cellar where the dust settles like snow on the bones of the house, and you are standing there, a man of letters and logic, a scholar of the old tongues, watching the clay shatter into a thousand shards that reflect nothing but your own terrified face, and the sound it makes is not a crash but a scream, a high-pitched shriek that...
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