"You are late," the voice said. It did not come from a throat. It came from the walls. From the dust motes dancing in the pale light. From the silence between the seconds.
Margaret Holloway did not look up. She kept her eyes on the white tile floor. It was cold. It was hard. It was the only thing that felt real.
"I am not late," she said. Her voice was small. It was a stone dropped into deep...
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