The Wistful Letter
The glass shatters against the floor. It is not a sound of breaking, but of shattering. It is a violent, crystalline scream that fills the sterile white room of the precinct. You stand there, your hands empty, your breath ragged in your chest. The shards lie in a jagged starburst on the linoleum, glittering with a cold, indifferent light. They are not ordinary glass. They are the remnants of...
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