The Pale Dance
The rain had not stopped for three days. It drummed against the single-pane windows of the St. Jude’s Rehabilitation Center, a relentless, gray percussion that seemed to synchronize with the low, steady hum of the fluorescent lights in the corridor. Margaret Holloway sat at her desk, her hands resting flat on the cold laminate surface. She was wearing a coat of heavy, charcoal wool. It was not...
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