The Wistful Mirror
The orchid on my desk had died. I noticed it on a Tuesday, or perhaps it was a Wednesday; the days in the Ministry of Civil Order had long since blurred into a single, gray smear of fluorescent light and the hum of ventilation fans. The plant was black now, its leaves shriveled into brittle husks that clung to the terracotta pot with the tenacity of a ghost refusing to leave a body. I had...
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