The Faded Quadrant
The glass had been my father’s, and before that, my mother’s, a heavy, square pane of amber light that sat upon the mahogany desk in the office where the world was decided. It was not merely a paperweight, though it weighed as much as a dead bird, nor was it simply a decorative object for the hands of men who signed away futures; it was a quadrant of the sun itself, captured and trapped, a...
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