The Wistful Saga
The porcelain shatters against the flagstones of the kitchen, a sound so sharp and final that it seems to cut the air in two, and I watch the white shards scatter like the bones of a bird that has died mid-flight, remembering how my mother used to say that a broken plate is merely a vessel that has finally admitted the truth of its own fragility, a truth that the smooth, unblemished surface had...
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