The Faded Frontier
The transfer form sat on the desk, three signatures required, and you had only one. You counted the days left on your watch, twenty-four hours, then the hours, then the minutes, the way a man counts stitches in a wound that will not close. The smell of damp wool and stale coffee hung in the air of the station office, a thick, cloying scent that seemed to seep into the pores of the paper itself....
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