The Pale Path
The transfer order lay on the desk, the ink still wet, a black smear against the cream paper. I signed it. My hand did not shake. I had signed three such forms in the last week, each one a small, bureaucratic death for my sister Mara, who had been confined to St. Jude’s for fourteen months. The building wept. That was the only thing the town council would admit to. A dampness in the walls, a...
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