atmospheric writing
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She hobbled down the slope, swaddled in strips of soiled fabric. One hung loose at her side. She flipped it back over her shoulder, muttering curses to herself. Then stopped, pressed her hands to her knees and bent forward.
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The scent of lemon disinfectant mixed with the faint sourness of old bodies. It slipped under the door and spread through the room. From the other side of the wall, the hiss of an oxygen tank bled through, loud and steady.
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Hooves pounded in the distance. She waited beside the round well. The bucket’s rope frayed, threads split and curling. Her komboskini hung at her waist, its dark wool looped in even knots along the cord. Each knot held a prayer.
