The Wistful Skyline
The porcelain shard lay on the floorboards, a jagged white tooth pulled from the jaw of the morning, and I stared at it with a stillness that felt less like peace and more like the suspension of breath before a plunge. It was a piece of the teacup, the one my mother had used every evening for forty years, the one with the chipped rim that she never mentioned because to mention it was to admit...
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