The Wistful Witness
You sit at the table. It is wood. Oak. The grain runs in tight, nervous lines. You are not eating. You are watching the spoon. It is silver. It is cold. You press your thumb against the back of it. The metal bites into your skin. You do not pull away. You are a detective. You are investigating the empty plate. The plate is white. It is clean. It is void. The kitchen is small. The walls are...
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