The Home Front
The fluorescent light hummed. Not a loud hum, not the kind that demanded attention, but a persistent, low-frequency vibration that seemed to burrow into his skull and set up residence there. Cole's eyes were open, but they weren't seeing anything. The ceiling above him was a uniform white, interrupted only by the occasional crack or water stain that had gone unaddressed for years. He counted them, his gaze moving from one imperfection to the next, trying to anchor himself in the present. The sheets beneath his fingers were crisp and stiff, the kind that had been washed so many times they'd lost any trace of softness. He could feel the faint ridges of the fabric against his fingertips, the tiny imperfections that spoke of years of institutional use. The smell of antiseptic was sharp in his
- Writer
