The Wistful Letter
The glass did not shatter with a scream, but with a sigh, a long, exhalative crack that ran from the center of the dome like a vein bursting in pale winter skin. Margaret stood in the center of the rotunda, her arms still raised, holding the fragment of the chandelier that had been suspended above her for three centuries. It was heavy, cold, and jagged, and as the other prongs of the crystal...
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