The Wistful Silence
The cold in the basement of the municipal water treatment plant does not sit upon the skin like a layer of frost but seeps into the marrow, a slow, hydraulic pressure that compresses the lungs and forces the breath to become a thin, ragged thing, a whisper of air escaping through a valve that has been left slightly ajar for decades. You stand there, in the blue-tinged gloom where the...
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