The Pale Tale
The ceramic bowl sat on the edge of the desk. It was white. Glazed in a matte finish that absorbed the fluorescent light of the office. Margaret watched it. The light hummed. A low, electric drone. It vibrated in her teeth. The room was cold. The air conditioning cycled. It breathed out a stale, recycled chill. Margaret adjusted her cardigan. The wool scratched her neck. She did not move. The...
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