The Faded Photograph
You wake up in a bed that is not yours, the sheets stiff with a cold that has nothing to do with the thermostat and everything to do with the fact that you have been dead for three days. Or perhaps you have just been asleep. The distinction feels increasingly academic, a hairline fracture in the reality you used to trust. You are in the small, rented room above the laundromat in Oakhaven, a...
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