The Pale Path
The cardboard box held forty-three binders, two staplers, and the last of her dignity. Elena counted them twice, the paper edges slicing a thin, white line across her thumb, a small wound that bled with the precise, mechanical regularity of a clock. Outside the glass walls of the Meridian Firm, the November light was a flat, gray sheet, offering no warmth, only a sterile visibility that made...
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