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The Apartment #189

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In moments of heightened trauma victims notice and focus on the smallest of things.
Tracey stopped screaming and gasped for air. Her hands reached out in front of her, her fingers like claws. She saw her nails, nicely manicured but not polished.
Outside, a bird sang. One voice, a beautiful trill. Perhaps a fledgling, calling for its mother. The song was a song of hope, each note a clear and colourful call in the gloom, a reminder of everything that was right and correct and beautiful and sacred in nature.
It was a precursor to the dawn.
A false dawn.

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