The Wistful Atlas
The union invoice lay on the kitchen counter, its edges curling in the damp air, the red stamp of the deadline bleeding slightly into the paper. You signed it. The pen tip snagged, pulling a small tear in the fiber, and you stared at the jagged line until your hand stopped shaking. Outside, the city hummed its low, metallic drone, a sound that had settled into your bones over twenty years of...
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