The Wistful Show
The glass is wet. It is not rain. It is the cold sweat of your palms, seeping through the fabric of your shirt, pooling in the hollows of your knuckles as you grip the edge of the desk. You are dreaming of the sound again, that high, thin shriek of silica giving way, the way a window pane fails not with a crash but with a sudden, violent absence. You wake in the archive, the fluorescent lights...
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