The Pale Garden
The weight of the porcelain was wrong; it was a heavy, cold thing, roughly the size of a child’s head, and Elias counted the seconds between the cracks widening in the glaze, one, two, three, while the kitchen air grew thick and tasteless. He was eleven years old, standing alone in the sterile white expanse of the Whitmore estate, a modernist box of glass and steel perched on the hillside, and...
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