The Cup
"This? This is the best you have?" Marisa bent down and picked up the cup, glued
together from a dozen pieces. "We
can't go to the investors with this!"
"Let
me tell you a story," Philip said looking up from the table cluttered with
broken pottery.
"A
short one."
"Big
city. Big bomb. Everything destroyed to ash. Nothing found in five hundred years until now."
Marisa
looked the cup over again; I don't do mornings written in the old language on
the side. She gently sat it back down on
the table before her brother.
"Good
work," she said softly.
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