[Day 12] The lost art of atonement

Liminal dispatch, 04.20.20

He didn’t mean to break it, of course—it was so early, the blue-gray morning just starting its slow spill of light. He was exhausted. His arm barely grazed it. The slide was swift.

I heard the crash first, then her sobbing. The small celadon dish, his birthday gift to her, shaped like a flower, rimmed in blue, the one he puts her vitamins and…