The Pale Shadows
The morning light, thin and grey as dishwater, crept across the linoleum floor of the holding cell, illuminating a single, withered fern that had been placed in a chipped ceramic pot in the corner, its fronds drooping in a posture of such profound, vegetative exhaustion that it seemed to be weeping sap into the dust rather than drinking it, a botanical mirror of the man slumped against the far...
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