She wiped the table too forcefully, movements rushed and desperate. Then she turned toward the shelf where my mother’s porcelain urn rested — a delicate piece, white with gold accents, the most precious thing I owned.
My chest tightened. “Don’t touch that—”
“I’ll clean everything properly,” she insisted, dusting around it. “I’m careful, Ma’am. I promise—”
Her elbow knocked against it.
The urn wobbled.
Time seemed to slow.
“Candela, stop—!”
Too late.
The urn tipped.
It fell.
Porcelain shattered against the marble floor.
Pieces scattered in every direction.
And my mother’s ashes… spread across the floor like drifting gray snow.
