The Wistful Grid

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2026-08-18 02:38:22 -

The Wistful Grid

The air smells of lilies and old paper. You sit at the desk. It is oak. It is cold. You are Margaret. You are writing. The pen scratches. It is a sound like a small animal dying. Outside, the rain hits the glass. It is November. The light is thin. You look at the window. You see the reflection of the room. You see the chair. You see the clock. The hands move. They do not stop. They never stop....

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