The Wistful Ashes

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2026-08-20 17:55:02 -

The Wistful Ashes

The cell was a square of gray silence. Marcus stood in the center. He did not sit. Sitting was for the broken. Sitting was for those who had accepted the weight of the ceiling. He stood, his spine a steel rod, his hands clasped behind his back. The concrete floor was cold through the soles of his boots. The air smelled of damp stone and old iron. A single light fixture hummed above, a sickly...

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