The Wistful Ashes
The letter in your hand is heavy. Not with ink, but with weight. It is a small, rectangular thing of grey cardstock, stamped with the seal of the Bureau of Civic Harmony. You hold it at arm’s length, as if it might burn your fingers. Outside the high, barred window, the rain falls in sheets against the glass, blurring the city into a smear of grey and black. The office is silent. The air...
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