The Wistful Dinner
The porcelain teapot, a relic of a grander and more fragile age, sat upon the high shelf in the parlor of the Ashworth estate, its glaze a pale, sickly blue that seemed to absorb the dim afternoon light rather than reflect it. It was a beautiful thing, and it was cracked, a hairline fracture running from the spout to the handle that Elara had noticed only moments ago, a tiny imperfection that...
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