The Faded Sutra
The gavel struck the mahogany block with the finality of a death sentence, and Margaret Holloway did not flinch. She stood in the center of the courtroom, a small island of gray wool in a sea of black robes and white collars, while the air around her thickened with the scent of beeswax and old paper. It was a high-ceilinged hall, the kind of space designed to make the individual feel like a...
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