The Pale Meridian
The soup was thin. You knew it was thin before you even lifted the spoon, by the way it sloshed against the ceramic with a hollow, watery sound that echoed in the sterile silence of the cell. It was a pale, milky liquid, barely distinguishable from water, floating with a few sad, translucent grains of rice and a single, withered leaf of spinach. It was not food. It was a mechanism of survival,...
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