The Faded Frequency
The cup is broken again. November 14th. It was the third time this month. I found the shards on the kitchen floor of the Whitmore residence, a domestic anomaly that defies the logic of my profession. The porcelain was white, thin, and cold to the touch, and nestled within the jagged remnants of the base sat a single, stale pill. It was a small, round tablet, beige and unmarked, the kind one...
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