The Distant Nightmare
The iron bowl sits on the table, cold and unyielding, a dark circle in the center of the white cloth where the light from the window falls thin and gray. You do not touch it. You sit across from it, your hands resting on your knees, palms flat against the rough denim of your trousers, feeling the weave of the fabric as a familiar texture, a small anchor in a world that has begun to drift. The...
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