The Pale Verdict
The pill sits on the white tile counter, small and white as a communion wafer, and you know, with the cold certainty of a man who has counted his own breaths for three years, that it is the only thing in this sterile, sun-bleached kitchen that is not already a ghost. You are Elias Thorne, or at least that is the name on the door, the name on the deed, the name whispered by the neighbors who see...
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