The Distant Garden
The cup was chipped. Not broken. Just a small, jagged mouth on the rim where the glaze had flaked away to reveal the dark, unglazed clay beneath. It was an ugly thing. A heavy, matte black cylinder that absorbed the light in the dim hall. Thomas held it in both hands. His fingers were slick with sweat. He was twelve. His knees knocked against the stone floor, a dull, rhythmic thud that seemed...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews