The Wistful Grid
The ink in my pen is running low, a dark red sludge that stains the nib like a bruise, and I find myself tracing the same line again and again, the scratch of the point against the paper sounding like the grinding of gears in a machine that has forgotten its purpose. It is three in the morning in the dormitory of the Ironclad Precinct, and the air tastes of stale tobacco and cold coal dust, a...
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