The Distant Whispers
You wake. The dust motes dance in the single shaft of light. Your hands are stiff. You flex them. The skin feels tight. It pulls at the knuckles. You look down. The fingers are swollen. The veins stand out like dark roots. They are not your hands. Or they are. But they have changed. You are in your kitchen. The tiles are cold. You sit. The chair creaks. A sound from the hall. Footsteps. Heavy....
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