The Pale Fracture
The ledger had four hundred and twelve entries, each one a life smoothed over by the gray smear of compliance. I checked the final column twice, the ink dry and sharp under my thumb, before I uncapped the bottle of state-issued gin. The liquid was clear, too clear, lacking the amber depth of the grain spirits my father used to drink in the kitchen before the Requisition. I poured a measure for...
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