The Pale Garden
The knife was in my hand. It was wet. I stood before the mirror. The glass was cold. My reflection stared back. It looked like me. But not quite. The face was pale. Too pale. Like the walls of this house. Like the skin of the dead. I am a clerk. That is all I am. I count the ledgers. I file the papers. I sign the forms. I do not question. I do not look up. The house is vast. It breathes. The...
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