The Wistful Saga
The glass breaks first. Not the window, not the mirror, but the bottle in your hand. You are holding it up to the light, a thick green cylinder of amber syrup, when the stress fractures run through the curvature and it explodes. The shards hit the floor with a sound like a scream. You do not flinch. You never flinch. You are the maker of the syrup. You are the merchant of the sweet, sticky lie...
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