The Distant Summer
The clock on the wall ticks. It is loud. You hear it. You count the seconds. One. Two. Three. The room is small. The air is stale. You sit in the corner. Your back is against the brick. It is cold. You are here because they told you to be here. You are here because you are wrong. Or so they say. Your hands are in your lap. They are still. You do not move. You have learned not to move. Movement...
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