The Distant Legend
The train hissed. It was a low, mournful sound, like a man clearing his throat before a difficult confession. You stood on the platform at Greyfriars, holding the case. It was a leather briefcase, hard-worn, the corners scuffed into a pale map of your failures. Inside, wrapped in oilcloth, lay the ceramic shard. A piece of a blue-and-white porcelain bowl. A fragment of the past, sharp and cold...
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