The Faded Chronicle
The bell rings. You flinch. Your hands shake. They are stained with grease. Black lines dig into the whorls of your fingerprints. You wipe them on your apron. The stain remains. It is part of you now. You stand in the corridor. The air is cold. It smells of coal dust and fear. Your shoes are thin. The floor is stone. It is hard. It is unyielding. You count your steps. One. Two. Three. You do...
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