The Wistful Throne
The knife slips. Not much. A hairline fracture in the apple’s skin. But the juice runs hot. Red. It pools on the counter, dark and slick. You stare at it. You do not wipe it away. The air in the kitchen is thick. It smells of iron and old wood. Outside, the rain hammers the windowpanes. A relentless, rhythmic drumming. It sounds like a heartbeat. Fast. Panicked. You are a maker. A shaper of...
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