The Faded Ruin
The intake form was printed on thick, cream-colored stock, the kind that felt substantial under the fingertips, almost like the paper used for wedding invitations. You signed it with a steady hand, the ballpoint scratching against the fiber, the ink drying before the pen even lifted. Below your name, in block letters, was the diagnosis: Grey Syndrome, Stage IV. The room was white, not the white...
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