The Pale Altar
The vase cracked. It did not shatter. It did not explode in a shower of porcelain shards. It simply sighed, a thin, white line of fracture running from the lip to the base, splitting the object in two. I held it. My hands were shaking, not from cold, but from the sudden, violent clarity of the break. It was an ugly thing, really. A crude, glazed ceramic vessel, chipped at the rim, smelling...
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