The Faded Photograph
The soup is cold, and it has begun to congeal into a pale, gelatinous skin that reflects the flickering fluorescent light of the cell like a dead, unblinking eye. You sit on the edge of the cot, your back pressed against the cinderblock wall, and you stare at the bowl in your hands. It is not just food; it is the only thing in this concrete box that has not been stripped of its texture, its...
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