The Pale Bridge
The pen scratches against the heavy bond paper, a sound like a dry branch snapping under a boot. Elias presses down on the signature line, the ink bleeding slightly into the fibers of the St. Jude Bridge demolition order. He is forty-two, and his hand trembles, not from age, but from the sheer physical weight of the finality. The room smells of dust and old toner, the air stale and thick with...
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