The Wistful Witness
The glass bowl sat on the center of the conference table. It was clear. It was empty. It was heavy. Margaret stared at it. Her fingers twitched. She did not touch it. Around her, the air hummed. The fluorescent lights buzzed. A low, electric drone. The room was white. The walls were white. The carpet was gray. Everything was sterile. Everything was silent. Except for the bowl. It did not make a...
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