The Faded Quadrant
Act I I remember the weight of the pen before I remember the sound of the door, a heaviness that seemed to drain the strength from my wrist and leave my fingers trembling against the cold linoleum of the care-home floor. We were sitting in the day room, the television low in the corner, playing a program about fish stocks that neither of us was watching, and the air smelled of boiled cabbage...
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