The Wistful Ashes
The bird was dead on the window ledge, its wings folded tight against the grey brick of the factory wall. It was a sparrow, small and unremarkable, but its posture was rigid, a sculpture of finality. Elias watched it from the third-floor window of the Processing Center, his breath fogging the cold glass. He did not blink. He had been watching it for an hour. To him, the bird was not a specimen...
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