The Wistful Voyage
The jar sits on the counter, heavy with the amber weight of its contents. You look at it now, standing alone in the kitchen while the rain taps a frantic, uneven rhythm against the glass. It is a simple thing, really. A mason jar, the kind you’d buy at a hardware store for pennies, filled with a thick, gelatinous substance that shifts from clear to a deep, bruised purple depending on the angle...
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