The Wistful Ashes
The petition lay on the desk, its edges curling in the dry, heated air of the Archive. I signed it with a hand that trembled, the ink blotting where my pulse beat strongest. I wanted my mother out of the Debt Ward. I wanted to pay the price. The price was memory, woven into the Iron Veil, that heavy shroud which hung on the hook by the door, absorbing one day of my life each morning to settle...
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