The Distant Whispers

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2026-08-19 12:00:35 -

The floor of the dispensary is cold. You feel the damp through the soles of your boots. It is a Tuesday. The air smells of boiled linseed and old sweat. You stand at the counter. Your hands are shaking. They have been shaking since the whistle blew in the yard. You are holding a bottle. It is small. Glass. Blue. It is full of a liquid that is clear but thick. It moves slowly when you tilt it....

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