The Distant Ghost
The lamp flickered. It was a small thing. A brass fixture. Dented. Dark with age. It hung from the ceiling of the office. It did not move. It just burned. Margaret sat. Her back was straight. Her hands were still. The air was cold. The heating had failed. Again. She looked at the lamp. She had looked at it for three days. It was not a lamp. Not anymore. It was a mark. A target. A ghost of light...
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