The Pale Dance
The soup was too hot. That was the first thing Thomas noticed, not the taste, which was a dull, metallic tang that coated the back of his throat, but the temperature, a scalding aggression that burned the soft flesh of his palate and made his eyes water. He held the chipped ceramic bowl with both hands, the steam rising in a thin, ghostly veil that obscured his face from the man sitting across...
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