The Wistful Throne
The server hummed. A low, electric thrum that vibrated through the soles of Margot’s shoes. It was the sound of the machine that ran her life. The mainframe. The core. The throne. She sat at her station. The screen glowed. Blue light. It washed over her face. It washed over her hands. It washed over the wedding ring on her left hand. The metal was cold. The gold was dull. Her name was Margot...
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