The Distant Ghost
The iron key hangs from your neck, heavy as a tombstone, cold as the marrow of the earth. It is not merely an object, but a piece of your own anatomy, an extruded bone of black metal that pulls at the clavicle with every breath you take. You are the Keeper of the Gate, a title that has grown to feel less like a job and more like a diagnosis, a slow erosion of the self by the very institution...
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