The Pale Path
The coffee in the mug is cold, a dark, bitter sludge that sits in the center of the steel table like a stagnant pool in a dead lake, and you stare at it, not because you are thirsty, but because the reflection of your own face in the liquid is the only thing in this windowless, concrete room that does not look back at you with accusation, a face that is half-hidden in shadow and half-lit by the...
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