The Wistful Petal
The paper in your hand is thin, damp with your own sweat, and smells faintly of iron. It is a witness statement, signed by a dead man’s ghost, or so it feels in the freezing smog of the Kessler Steel Works yard. You are Elias, thirty-two, and your hands shake so badly you have to press the paper against your chest to keep it from fluttering into the slush. Dawn is four hours away. The union...
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