The Wistful Letter
The vial lay in your palm, cold and jagged, the glass fractured into a starburst of shards that bit into the meat of your thumb. You held it up to the grey light filtering through the high, barred windows of Ward 4, watching the dark, viscous residue cling to the inner walls, mixed now with the damp, black soil of the garden bed you had accidentally swept it into. It was a small thing, a broken...
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