The Pale Shadows
Clara found him on the kitchen floor, his forehead pressed against the cold tile, his breath rattling in a chest that felt too small for the man inside it. "Elias," she said, her voice flat with the exhaustion of a decade. "Get up." He did not move. In the dark behind his eyelids, the orchids were blooming again, white and fleshy, pushing through the wet, red soil of his father’s lungs. It was...
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