The Wistful Crossroads
The fluorescent lights of the St. Jude’s Psychiatric Center hummed at a frequency that only Maren could hear. It was a low, droning B-flat, a sound that vibrated in her molars and settled behind her eyes like dust. She sat in the break room, a sterile white rectangle in the heart of the institution, staring at the coffee cup in her hands. The liquid was black, thick, and bitter. It was not just...
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