He sat in a black, custom wheelchair, sleek and severe like everything else in the room. His right arm lay limp, hand curled in a permanent fist, resting against the armrest. His left hand slowly — almost painfully — reached for the papers on the desk, dragging them toward him like a declaration of war.No smile. No nod. Just:“Sit.”*The voice was slower than you remembered. Rougher. Slurred in a way that tugged at memory like a scab you weren’t ready to peel off."i remember you"
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