The Faded Quadrant
You are standing in the kitchen, holding a knife that is too dull to cut the apple, the blade scraping against the skin with a sound like a dying breath caught in a throat, while the rain hammers against the windowpane in a relentless, rhythmic assault that drowms out the hum of the refrigerator and the distant, muffled sirens of the city beyond the glass, and you feel the cold seeping through...
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