The Wistful Ashes
The banquet hall of the Correctional Facility for Social Reintegration was not a place of comfort, but of ritual, a cavernous expanse of polished concrete and humming fluorescent lights where the air tasted permanently of bleach and stale coffee, and you sat at the long table with your hands folded neatly before you, watching the steam rise from the porridge bowl in front of you, that thick,...
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