The Wistful Ashes
The porcelain cup sat on the steel table, its rim chipped in a way that looked like a frozen tear, and I held it with a reverence that felt indelicate in the sterile air of the Ministry of Aesthetic Compliance. It was a simple thing, a white vessel with a faint blue glaze, the kind my mother used to drink her evening tea before the Reclamation took her, but here, in the gleaming corridors of...
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