The Pale Mist
You hold the fern in your right hand, its fronds unfurled like the delicate, jagged teeth of a forgotten god, and you know, with a certainty that settles into the marrow of your bones like winter frost, that the institution believes you have finally broken. The air in the precinct is thick with the scent of stale coffee and ozone, a metallic tang that coats the back of your throat, and you can...
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