The Faded Shield
March 14 I am forty-two years old and I am dying in a room that smells of bleach and antiseptic. The walls are white. The ceiling is white. The sheets are white. I want to see Elena. She is waiting in the hallway, I know it. I can feel her presence through the concrete, a heavy, static charge that hums against the glass. The ventilator breathes for me. In. Out. In. Out. It is a mechanical...
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