The Faded Road
The stamp hit the paper with a sound like a small bone breaking. I watched the ink bleed into the fibers. Red. Bright and wet. It looked like a wound that would not close. My hand was steady. It had to be steady. For twenty years, my hand had been steady. I was a man who measured the world in lines and boundaries. I was a man who kept order. "You are sure?" I asked. The man across the desk did...
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