The Pale Echo
The rain taps against the windowpane of your office, a rhythmic, insistent drumming that seems to sync with the thumping of your own heart. You sit at the desk, the leather chair creaking under your weight, a sound that feels like a bone cracking. On the surface before you lies a single, white orchid, its petals pristine and impossibly fragile. It is a mirror of your own hands, pale and...
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