The Wistful Saga
The count was precise: four hundred and twelve milligrams of morphine, logged, signed, and sealed in the amber vial, each drop a heavy, viscous coin of trust that you had to weigh against the crushing weight of the debt hanging over your head. You were Mara, thirty-two, a night-shift nurse at St. Jude’s, a hospital that smelled of wet wool and old antiseptic, and you needed this permanent...
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