The Museum

They glitter like ice or diamonds or shattered glass, each to its own pedestal, catching the spotlights and making the room dance with flecks of gold, blue, white.

“They’re more colourful than I pictured,” says Vivian. “I thought they’d all be red.”

“Some are,” says Ms. Hust, her hands folded like she’s hiding something, “But there’s more than one kind of heartbreak.” She points at a heap of silver fragments, shining from within. “This one,” she stops, and takes a breath. “Poor girl. Full of promise and life, and love. Her heart broke slow. He took his time with her.”

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