The Pale Letter
The coffee in the mug was cold, the fourth cup in four hours, and the steam had long since vanished into the stagnant air of the station. You counted the cracks in the linoleum floor, one, two, three, tracing them with your eyes until the pattern blurred into a grey smear. The clock on the wall ticked, a mechanical heartbeat that seemed to slow the more you listened, marking the seconds until...
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