The Distant Whispers
The zipper of the suitcase caught on the lining, and you tugged it with a force that made your knuckles white, the plastic teeth grinding against the fabric with a sound like a bone snapping under pressure. You were not packing clothes; you were packing the last of your dignity, folding shirts that still smelled of Clara’s lavender soap and the antiseptic tang of the hospital, trying to fit a...
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