The Wistful Saga
Act I I remember the weight of the ceramic before I even held it, a heaviness that felt like a promise I couldn’t keep. It was a Tuesday in late autumn, the kind of day where the air in the parish hangs heavy with algae and cold iron, and I sat in the back office of the tax preparation firm, trying to make sense of the eviction notice pinned to my corkboard. The paper was yellowed, the ink...
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