The Wistful Crossroads
The air in the office hummed with a low, electric vibration. It tasted of copper and ozone. Clara sat at her desk. The fluorescent lights buzzed. They were dying. One by one, they flickered out. Darkness spread like ink in water. She did not move. Her hands rested on the keyboard. The keys were warm. Too warm. They pulsed against her skin. Like a heartbeat. Like a living thing. Clara had worked...
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