The Pale Circus
You are the new one. You know this. The fluorescent lights hum a low, sick note against your teeth. It sounds like a fly trapped in a jar. You are sitting at a desk in a windowless room. The walls are the color of old milk. You are here to file. That is all. You are here to file the dead. The office is cold. Your breath fogs in the air. You watch the fog rise. You watch it vanish. It is a small...
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