The Golden Mirror
The bottle of amoxicillin sat on the nightstand, its label peeling slightly at the corner, a white pill resting in the cap like a small, unopened eye, and it had been there for three days, untouched, while the fever in Elias Thorne’s chest rose and fell in a slow, tidal rhythm that seemed to sync with the dripping of the radiator in the corner. The room was small, a sterile white box in the...
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