The Faded Root
The room hummed. A low, electric thrum. Like a wasp trapped in a jar. I sat at the table. Glass top. Cold. My reflection stared back. Distorted. Broken. This was the annual review. The Grand Audit. They called it the Summit of Alignment. It felt like a funeral. Eleanor sat across from me. Her smile was a knife. Sharp. Thin. "Margaret," she said. Her voice was silk over gravel. "We need to talk...
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