The Pale Door
The ink is dry, but the stain remains, a dark vein pulsing beneath the parchment of your skin, and you stand at the edge of the void where the library’s final shelf dissolves into a fog that smells of ozone and old paper, holding the name tag that was once yours, now stripped of your identity until it is only a pale, blank rectangle of potential, and you look at it, this small, white thing, and...
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