The Wistful Saga
The jar sat in Elias’s hands, heavy with the weight of broken glass and dried syrup. He turned it over, watching a single drop of amber liquid catch the light, then fall to the floor with a soft, sticky thud. The smell hit him before the sight did: burnt sugar, thick and cloying, rising from the empty office like heat from a broken engine. It was the third time this week the scent had appeared,...
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