The Distant Wound
The wall was white. It was always white. Marek stood before it. The surface was smooth. It was cold to the touch. It did not breathe. It did not blink. It simply existed. It was a monolith. It rose from the floor. It touched the ceiling. The ceiling was also white. The floor was white. The air was white. There was no light. There was no shadow. There was only the hum. A low, constant hum. It...
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