The Faded Root
The stain on the apron was dark, almost black, and it did not come off with the brush. Mara scrubbed at the hem of the garment, the bristles digging into the fabric, while the fluorescent lights of the breakroom hummed a low, persistent note above her head. She had been working at the municipal archive for three years, processing soil samples that were supposed to be inert, but her hands had...
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