The Wistful Skyline
The ferns in the lobby were dead, or at least, they had been for a week. They stood in their plastic pots, brown and brittle, like the fingers of old men who had forgotten how to grip. Nora looked at them and felt a strange, hollow pull in her chest. She kept her eyes on the floor, counting the cracks in the linoleum. One, two, three. She needed to keep her mind busy. If she looked up, she...
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