The Faded Sutra
You are standing in the kitchen of a condemned high-rise in Chicago, the wind whistling through the shattered windows with a sound like a long, thin scream that has been held in for too long, and you are holding a porcelain teacup that is not just cracked but shattered, the fragments held together not by glue but by the sheer, desperate force of your will, your fingers bleeding where the jagged...
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