The Pale Fracture
You are standing in the kitchen, the air thick with the smell of rotting apples and damp stone, and you are looking at the jar of preserves that sits on the table, the glass cracked down the middle in a jagged, pale line that bleeds honey across the white wood, and you are thinking about how it is a miracle that anyone in this place still remembers the word for sweet, because the sweetness has...
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