The Faded Ruin
You walk the ridge line. The grass is dead, stiff as wire, snapping under your boots. The air tastes of rust and ozone. You are seven years old. Your name is Thomas, though the adults call you Unit Seven. The adults are the Wardens. They wear grey suits that never wrinkle. They walk with the heavy, deliberate gait of men who believe the ground beneath them is solid, even when it is crumbling....
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