The Pale Path
The bowl weighed four hundred and twelve grams, a figure I had recorded in the ledger on the counter’s edge, the ceramic chipped at the rim where Margaret had dropped it in the spring of 2019, a fracture that never quite healed, a small, jagged mouth that drank the light before the porridge could. I held it with both hands, the heat of the oatmeal having long since bled out into the sterile air...
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