The Wistful Silence
The memo was printed on cheap, gray paper, the kind that felt gritty under Elara’s fingertips. It stated, in a font so small it seemed designed to be missed, that her probationary period would be reviewed in forty-eight hours. Elara sat at her desk, the fluorescent lights humming a low, electric note that drilled into her temples, and stared at the signature at the bottom: M. Halloway, Senior...
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