The Faded Alibi
The porcelain bowl is already broken when you reach for it, the shards biting into your palm with a cold, wet sharpness that feels less like pain and more like a warning you have ignored for a long time. You are twelve years old, and the weight of the fragments is heavy, heavier than glass should be, pulling your hand down into the dark of the dream where the kitchen floor is made of black...
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