The Wistful Grid
The email sits in your inbox. Three words. "We found her." You do not open it. You look at the ceiling fan. It spins. The blades cut the air. You are in the kitchen. The linoleum is cold. It has always been cold. You remember when it was warm. You remember when the sun hit the tile at two o'clock. Now it is always dark. The house is a box. The box is a cage. You are the bird. The bird is sick....
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