The Distant Joke
The porcelain cup was cracked. I found it in the restricted vault, tucked behind a stack of water-damaged ledgers from 1974, its glaze fractured in a jagged line that looked less like damage and more like a map of my own ambitions. I was thirty-two, a junior archivist at the Ministry of Cultural Heritage, and I needed this. I needed to secure the permanent curatorship before the dementia...
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