The Faded Root
You are standing in the center of the kitchen, holding a bowl of porridge that has gone cold. The milk has separated, forming a skin that looks like the surface of a dried lake. Your father is sitting at the table across from you. He is wearing his cardigan, the one with the frayed elbow, and he is looking at you with an expression that is difficult to name. It is not anger. It is not pity. It...
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