The Wistful Ashes
The rain had been falling for three days, a relentless, gray sheet that blurred the boundary between the iron fence and the sky, turning the courtyard of the Bureau of Internal Stability into a swamp of mud and rusted water where the reflection of the central spire seemed to sink deeper with every hour, a drowning star pinned beneath the glass of the wet earth, and I stood there in my uniform,...
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