The Pale Fracture
The porcelain hand sat on the kitchen table, its fingers curled in a permanent, silent plea. It was cracked down the palm, a pale fracture that matched the line of tension in my own jaw. I held it up to the dim light, checking the integrity of the ceramic, my thumb tracing the chip where the thumb had once been. Outside, the wind howled against the single window of my apartment, a sound that...
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