The Faded Paradox
The taste of the apple was not sweet but metallic, a sharp tang of copper and old blood that coated my tongue and lingered in the back of my throat like a bad memory, and I stood there in the center of the kitchen, holding the bruised fruit in my hand, while the rain hammered against the single pane of glass in the window with a rhythm that felt less like weather and more like the frantic...
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