The Wistful Dinner
The crack in the porcelain ran like a vein of dried blood through the white glaze. Elara held the bowl, her thumb tracing the fracture, feeling the sharp edge bite into her skin. It was a minor injury, a papercut of the spirit, but it bled. Outside, the rain lashed against the windowpane, a relentless drumming that matched the throbbing in her temples. She was thirty-two, and she stood in the...
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