The Faded Photograph
The jar sat on the counter, a squat cylinder of glass filled with a viscous, amber liquid that caught the fluorescent light of the kitchen and held it there, suspended and trembling. It was not wine, nor was it whiskey, though it possessed the heavy, cloying scent of both, a perfume that seemed to thicken the air around it, making the small, rented apartment feel less like a home and more like...
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