The Distant Metropolis
The letter was folded into a square, the creases worn white from being handled, and it sat on the kitchen table like a small, dead insect. You picked it up, the paper cool and brittle against your thumb, and read the words again to make sure they were real. *Consolidation of Resources.* That was the phrase Halloway used, a sterile term for the act of erasure. You had spent fourteen years...
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