The Wistful Silence
The porcelain bowl, a thing of such delicate and intricate beauty that it seemed to hold the breath of a dying star within its blue and white glaze, lay shattered upon the cold stone floor of the cellar, its fragments scattering like the bones of a saint under the heavy, unblinking gaze of the mirror that hung on the wall opposite, a mirror that did not reflect the room but rather the soul of...
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