The Pale Letter
The soup was cold. It sat in the ceramic bowl on the metal table of the interrogation room, a greyish, unappetizing sludge of carrots and broth that had long since lost its heat. I stared at it, not because I was hungry, but because it was the only thing in the sterile white room that was not part of the machinery of my own dismantling. The fluorescent lights hummed above me, a sound like a bee...
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