The Wistful Silence
The brass clock on the mantelpiece ticks with a violence that feels personal. It is a heavy, rectangular thing, black lacquer peeling at the corners, its face obscured by a layer of dust so thick it has become a second skin. You have been staring at it for three days. It does not tick. You know this. You have held your breath and waited until the silence inside your chest matched the silence of...
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