The Golden Echoes
You wake up before the alarm, as you always do, to the sound of the refrigerator humming its low, electric hymn in the kitchen, a sound that has become the metronome of your insomniac years, and you lie still for a moment, staring at the water stain on the ceiling that looks, if you squint, like a map of a country you used to believe in, before swinging your legs over the side of the bed and...
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