The Wistful Ashes
The air in the isolation ward is not merely sterile; it is a physical weight, a thick, gelatinous substance that presses against your eardrums and settles in the hollows of your lungs, smelling faintly of ozone and burnt sugar, a scent that has become so intrinsic to your existence that you can no longer distinguish it from the smell of your own skin. You sit on the narrow, padded bench that...
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