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Telan held the brittle shard of ice candy in her tiny, dirt-streaked palm, and tried not to cry. 

“Do you not like it?” the young woman asked. Her accented voice was confused, as she stared at the orphan.

“I-I do,” Telan said quickly, swiping at her eyes. “It just reminds me of Papa.”

“Ah.” The woman knelt and placed a hand on Telan’s shoulder. Her sculptured face seemed more metal than flesh, the skin painted gray, and her eyes shiny inside rings of black. “Memories make us weak, little one.” 

She stepped closer, blocking Telan’s view of the blood-washed courtyard.

(Written for The Prediction. Challenge words: brittle, orphan, sculpture)

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