The Faded Photograph
The fern you keep in the plastic pot on the windowsill of the police station breakroom is dying, and you know this with the same visceral, sickening certainty that you know your own heart is failing, a knowledge that sits heavy and warm in your chest like a stone swallowed whole during a meal. You have been holding it for three days, ever since the incident at the bridge, and now it is wilting...
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