The Wistful Show
The ink on my finger was black and gritty, a fine powder that worked into the creases of my skin and refused to wash out. I held the ledger open to the page marked with Julian’s name, my hand trembling not from cold, but from the sheer, mechanical weight of the numbers. Across the stone table, the Magistrate sat behind a desk of polished oak, his face a mask of bureaucratic serenity. "Sir," I...
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