The Faded Sutra
The ledger showed three hundred and twelve hours logged for the conscription of Julian Thorne, a number that sat on my desk like a stone in my shoe. I counted them again, tracing the ink with my fingertip until the paper felt worn, a habit born of the anxiety that had settled into my bones the day he was taken from our flat in the district of St. Jude’s. The Ministry of Records did not deal in...
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