The Wistful Asylum
The kettle whistles, a thin, high note that cuts through the hum of the fluorescent lights in the break room. You reach for the mug, your fingers brushing the chipped rim of the ceramic. It is a blue mug, faded at the handle, the only object in this sterile, white-tiled institution that feels like it has a history. It belongs to you. Or rather, it belongs to the version of you that is still...
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