The Distant Journey
The soup is thick. It coats the back of your spoon, heavy as wet clay. You are sitting in the corner of the kitchen, the one with the wainscoting that has yellowed with age and smoke. The clock on the wall ticks. It is a loud, mechanical sound. It sounds like a hammer hitting a nail. *Tick. Tick. Tick.* You do not like the sound. It reminds you of time. Time is the thing you are trying to...
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