The Faded Portrait
The soup was hot, a thick, swirling vortex of cream and root vegetables that steamed into the cold air of the hall, and Elara stared at it with the fixed, hollow intensity of a child who has stopped seeing the world and started seeing only the gap where it used to be, because the spoon in her hand was not a spoon but a key, a bone, a thing that had been pulled from the flesh of her mother’s arm...
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