The Faded Photograph
The mop head had absorbed four gallons of water, a weight that settled into the small of my back like a second spine. I counted the strokes as I moved across the linoleum of the east wing, one, two, three, four, a rhythm that kept the silence at bay. The floor was not merely dirty; it was a record. Every drop of blood from the last three years had soaked into the porous surface, creating a map...
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