The Distant Affair
The pie is still warm. You can feel the heat radiating through the porcelain, a gentle, living pulse that matches the beat of your own heart. It sits on the table, untouched, a lattice of crust crusted with sugar that has begun to glaze into a hard, glassy shell. You are sitting in a room that does not exist. The walls are made of old newspapers, yellowed and brittle, the text blurred into an...
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