The Wistful Skyline
The cup was cold in my hands, its glaze chipped at the rim where I had knocked it against the ledger stand three days ago. I held it up to the weak light of the desk lamp, tracing the fracture line that ran from the handle to the base, a thin white vein in the blue porcelain. It was a small thing, a domestic trinket I had bought at a flea market in Bristol twenty years ago, but in the silence...
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