The Pale Bridge
The soup is cold. You stir it. It does not mix. The broth stays still. The meat floats. It looks like a face. You do not like faces in food. Especially not that one. It looks like your father. It looks like him when he was sick. You push the bowl away. The spoon clatters. The sound is loud. It is too loud. In this room. In this silence. You are alone. But you are not. The walls are breathing....
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