The Faded Root
The watch is broken. The face is cracked down the center, a jagged scar running from the twelve to the six. It is a standard-issue tactical chronometer, matte black, scuffed at the edges. You hold it in your palm. It feels dead. The glass is cold. The hands are frozen at 4:12. You do not know what time it is. You do not care. The room smells of ozone and floor wax. It is the atrium of the...
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