The Distant Whispers
The rain hit the window in long, gray sheets. I sat in the chair. My hands were shaking. They were always shaking now. I looked at the glass. My face was there. It was not my face. It was a stranger’s. Old. Tired. The lines around my eyes were deep. Like canyons. I touched the glass. It was cold. I pulled my hand back. The reflection did not move. It stayed there. Watching. My name is Thomas...
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