The Wistful Silence
You are sitting in the small, windowless room at the end of the corridor, where the air has grown still and thick with the scent of old paper and the faint, metallic tang of fear that you have cultivated in your own chest like a vine growing through the cracks of the floorboards. The walls are white, a sterile, aggressive white that seems to push back against the shadows, and the single...
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