The Wistful Ashes
The letter on your desk is yellowed, the ink faded to a bruised purple, but the words are sharp enough to cut. You have read it forty times in the last hour. You have read it until the edges of the page have softened, until the paper feels like skin under your thumb. It is a retraction. Or perhaps a correction. The word is ambiguous, which is exactly how they like things here at the Institute....
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