The Human Symbol
The wallpaper in Arthur's room was a pale, sickly yellow, peeling away in long strips like dead skin. Outside the window, the smokestacks of the Oakhaven mills pumped a steady stream of charcoal grey into the sky, a permanent ceiling for a town that had forgotten how to dream. Arthur sat in his wheelchair, his legs two useless pillars of flesh. He was twenty-four, but his eyes belonged to a man...
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