The Pale Meridian
The cell is not dark, which is perhaps the cruelest part of the confinement. The light comes from high, narrow slits in the stone, filtering down in beams that feel like solidified time, dust motes swirling in their slow, indifferent dance. You are sitting on the stone floor, your back against the cold wall, and you are waiting for the interview. It is the third time this week. The men in the...
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