The Faded Photograph
The soup was red, or perhaps it was the light of the city bleeding through the rain-streaked window, but to Elias, sitting in the sterile white booth of the diner, it looked like blood. He stirred the bowl with a spoon that had lost its shine, the metal scraping against ceramic with a sound like a small, dry bone breaking. The liquid was thick, viscous, a heavy orange-red that clung to the...
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