The Faded Quadrant
You wake in the white room. The light is flat. It has no source. It presses against your skin like a damp cloth. You are still. Your hands are bound. Not with rope. With silence. You know this place. You have been here before. In dreams. In the dark of the barracks. In the hours after the shooting. The air tastes of metal. Of old pennies. You try to speak. No sound comes. Your throat is a dry...
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