The Other Life
The coffee was instant again. That was the first thing Tom noticed when he woke up, before his eyes were even open—the smell of it, cheap and metallic, the way it sat in his stomach like warm water with colour. He made it the same way every morning: two scoops, hot water from the kettle that had a dent in the side, stir it with the chipped blue spoon. He carried the mug to the kitchen window...
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