The Wistful Skyline

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2026-08-17 12:04:46 -

The taste of the soup was always metallic, a sharp, copper tang that coated the back of my throat and lingered long after the bowl was scraped clean, a persistent ghost of iron and rust that no amount of bread could scrub away. It was the taste of the institution, of the sterile corridors and the humming fluorescent lights that buzzed like trapped flies, of the rigid schedules that carved my...

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