The Wistful Ashes
The morning light in the settlement of Oakhaven did not so much shine as it pressed, a heavy, gray hand against the glass. It was a quality of illumination that felt less like nature and more like surveillance, a constant, soft hum that vibrated in the teeth. Margaret Holloway stood before the mirror in her small, sterile room, watching her own reflection. She was fifty-two, though the damp...
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