Cupping the bowl as though it were a frangible, precious thing in a pair of diminutive, death-pale hands.
It peers unblinking up at the taller Umin, by a head’s height, aspect an unreadable mask.
Only for the briefest of moments as the bow of its lips bends into a smouldering little smile, somewhere between beatific and base.
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A dark, fantastical tale that is intended to unfold a paragraph, or thereabouts, at a time.
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16 Oct 2026
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