Losing His Marbles

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Oliver rests his chin on the table and stares into the marbles. They’re so pretty from this angle: the light shining through, making the colors sparkle and dance on the table when he nudges it with his knee.

The front door slams, jolting him from his reverie.

Oliver lives alone.

He lurches to his feet, whacking his shin against the leg of the table and scattering his marbles across the tile floor.

No one is at the door. It must have been the wind. He spends the next eighteen minutes gathering the marbles back up to replace on the table.

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