The Pale Echo
You are lying on the floor of the apartment, your cheek pressed against the cold linoleum, listening to the hum of the refrigerator. It is a low, steady vibration, a mechanical heartbeat that seems to replace your own. You are twelve years old, or perhaps thirteen, or perhaps old enough to know that some things cannot be fixed. The dream is still with you, a gray mist clinging to the edges of...
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