The Wistful Ashes
The pen was taken from my fingers before the ink had dried, the nib still weeping a black tear onto the sterile white of the mandated Journal of Compliance. I am Martha Hathaway, thirty-four years old, and the date stamped in red at the top of the page reads the fourteenth of November, Year 42 of the Correction. My hands were not trembling from the cold, though the air in Cell Block C carries a...
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