The Wistful Witness
The iron key had grown so heavy with the dust of my own guilt that it seemed less like a tool and more like a stone I had carried in my pocket for years, its teeth worn smooth against the fabric of my trousers until they were no longer sharp enough to turn the lock, only to scratch the skin of my hand where I held it, a constant, dull reminder of the door I had chosen to close and the world I...
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