The Wistful Witness
The clock ticks. It is loud. The air is cold. You hold the jar. It is glass. It is heavy. The label is torn. The word is gone. Only the shape remains. A red smear. A warning. A promise. You are in the archive. The room is square. The walls are white. The light is flat. It hums. It bites. Your hands shake. You do not let them. You are here to sort. To file. To keep the order. But the order is...
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