The Pale Bridge
The bone was white. Not the chalky white of ash, but the dense, ivory white of old ivory. It sat in the center of the table. It was a femur. Mine. I knew this. I had checked the serial number etched into the marrow. 7-Alpha. I was the exile. I was the refugee. I was the one who had crossed the border of the living world to stand here, in the Hall of Records, under the gaze of the Auditor. The...
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