The Wistful Dinner
The mist does not rise; it hangs, a thin and cold skin over the water that refuses to freeze. I have held this bowl for twelve years, and in that time the glaze has chipped along the rim, a jagged white scar that catches the light of the lamp in my office. It is a small thing, a ceramic vessel no larger than a fist, yet it carries a weight that bends the air around it, a localized anomaly that...
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