The Faded Attic
The air in the holding cell tasted of stale coffee and industrial disinfectant, a sharp, chemical bite that coated the back of your throat. You are forty-six years old, though you have felt older for a decade, your knees a dull, grinding ache in the damp cold of the concrete floor. The fluorescent light above flickers with a low, electric hum, casting long, jittery shadows that dance against...
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