The Distant Blade
The porcelain shard lies in the palm of your hand, its edge sharp enough to draw a thin line of red, and you are standing in the kitchen of the house on Elm Street, the one with the slate roof that leaks when the wind shifts westward, while the rain hammers against the windowpane in a rhythm that mimics the hammering of your own heart, which beats with a frantic, irregular tempo that suggests a...
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