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Flash fiction · From the Margen catalogue

The Waiting Room

I've been in the waiting room so long that I know the magazines by heart. Every time the door opens they call someone… but never me.

Today I noticed a plaque beside the door I'd never seen before. It bears the names of everyone who has gone in to be seen, and they're all crossed out.

All but one, at the very bottom. Mine, with the time I came in: fourteen years ago.