The Wistful Ashes
The ferns in the atrium of the Department of Anomalous Cognition were dying, and I knew it before the soil did. They curled inward, their fronds turning a brittle, skeletal yellow, shedding spores that looked like fine, grey dust in the harsh fluorescent light. I sat in my corner cubicle, the one with the cracked monitor and the view of the empty parking lot, and I watched a single frond detach...
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