The Wistful Show
You dream of the soup. It is thick. Brown. It smells of iron and burnt sugar. You wake with the taste on your tongue. Salt. Cinnamon. Copper. The room is cold. The walls are bare. You are in a cell. Or a room. It does not matter. The light is flat. White. Artificial. You sit on the edge of the bed. Your hands are shaking. You look at them. They are steady now. They are just hands. A knock....
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