The Distant Ghost
The porcelain bowl did not shatter when it hit the floor; it dissolved. It was a thing of pale blue glaze, cracked down the center in a way that suggested age rather than damage, a heirloom passed from mother to daughter in a lineage that Preacher Elias Thorne had spent three years documenting. He stood in the center of the drawing room, his boots heavy on the Persian rug, watching the...
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