The Faded Photograph
The rain against the window of the infirmary is a slow, rhythmic beating, like a heart that has forgotten how to stop. You stand in the corner, your uniform pressed and immaculate, though the fabric feels like a second skin that is slowly rotting off your flesh. The air smells of boiled starch and old iron, a scent that has permeated your pores so deeply that you can no longer distinguish it...
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