The Faded Apartment
"You didn’t have to take the picture, Elias. You didn’t have to burn the rest of it." The voice was Clara’s, but it was not the Clara who had stood in the kitchen that morning, her face a mask of exhausted patience, her hands wrapped around a mug of cold coffee. It was the Clara of the dream, the one who always appeared in the smoke, her silhouette sharp against the orange roar of the field...
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