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Stan can feel his heartbeat thudding, a low, dull ache in his chest, as he stares at the door. He doesn’t know what he expected when he got here—a phone call, some scrap of familiarity—but instead, there’s only that dark, uninviting door, barely visible against the relentless white. His fingers tremble slightly as he shifts his grip, the leather cold and unforgiving against his skin. The silence feels alive, pressing against him, whispering to him that he could just turn the key, drive away, leave it all behind.
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