The Pale Shadows
The glass shard was cold against my palm, a sliver of silvered mirror no longer than my thumb, sharp enough to draw a bead of blood before I even knew I was holding it. I stood in the corridor of St. Jude’s Psychiatric Facility, the linoleum sticky under my boots, the air thick with the smell of industrial lemon cleaner and stale sweat. I wanted to take Mara home. I wanted to break the hold the...
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