The Faded Root
The door is locked. You know it is. You feel the cold iron bit into the wood, a jagged tooth in the flesh of the room. "Are you in there, Martha?" The voice is muffled. It comes from the other side of the heavy oak. It is not a question. It is a fact. You do not answer. You hold the glass jar. It is empty. It was empty before you started. It will be empty when you stop. "Martha." The wood...
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