The Pale Fracture
I dreamt of a hand. Not my own. It was white and still, resting on a table of grey stone. The fingers were long. They did not move. In the dream, the air was thick with the smell of wet chalk. I woke with the taste of iron in my mouth. My left arm was gone. The room was small. The walls were white. The light was flat and grey. I lay in a bed of steel and white plastic. A monitor beeped. One...
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