The Wistful Witness
The glass of the St. Jude’s Infirmary window did not merely break; it surrendered. I remember the sound of it, a high, thin shriek that tore through the heavy, medicinal smell of the ward, followed by the soft, wet thud of shards hitting the linoleum. It was a Tuesday, or perhaps a Wednesday; time had lost its rigid architecture here, stretched thin like taffy over the years of my confinement....
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