The Wistful Ashes

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2026-08-22 21:20:10 -

The Wistful Ashes

The wind at the checkpoint did not blow; it scoured. It stripped the heat from my skin and the sound from the air, leaving only the grit of sand against the canvas of my coat. I stood in the queue, my hands trembling not from cold but from the vibration of the metal gate ahead. Behind me, the crowd pressed forward, a silent tide of gray rags and hollow eyes. My daughter, Mara, was twelve years...

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