The Distant Ghost
The bowl was chipped along the rim, a jagged white fracture that caught the fluorescent hum of the ward, and Elias Thorne held it with hands that did not quite belong to the body sitting in the plastic chair. The porridge inside was a pale, viscous sludge, the kind served at six in the morning to men who had forgotten the taste of bread, and as his fingers brushed the ceramic, the liquid began...
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