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by Mitch Moore

Room was silent, restless, uneasy, an atmosphere that had become the norm. Room was feeling its age today. It cast its eye over the egg-blue chipped bench. Sun-filtered light streamed through the grimy window, through which Room surveyed the human realm. The stain remained on the matted green carpet; a smell of blood lingered in the air. Police tape fluttered in the wind that had found its way in through its broken roof.

Room never forgot.