Eleanor found him at 6 p.m., still staring.
Every Tuesday at 4 p.m., Coles’s wife, Eleanor, placed a single sugar cube on his desk. Not in his coffee, not on a saucer—just there, on the worn leather blotter, like a tiny white monument.
The next Tuesday, Eleanor placed another cube beside the first. Coles lined them up. Then another Tuesday, and another. Soon, a tiny white city grew on his desk. He refused to explain. He refused to let her touch them.
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