The Wistful Ashes
The glaze is non-compliant. The supervisor did not look up from his tablet. He tapped the screen twice, the sound sharp in the sterile air of the checkpoint booth, and slid the form back across the counter. Elias Thorne stared at the paper. The ink was dry. The stamp was red and official. Non-compliant. He looked at the urn in his hands. It was white porcelain, thin as eggshell, holding the ash...
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