The Distant Metropolis
The ink on the document was not yet dry when I realized that the name at the bottom was not mine. It was a signature in a hand that I recognized with the sickening clarity of a mirror held up in a dark room, a hand that belonged to Thomas Bradshaw, the man who had been dead for six years, and the man who was, according to the cold, fluorescent logic of the institution, currently occupying my...
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