The Wistful Witness
The transfer request form, Form 7-B, sat on the desk of the District Supervisor, a man whose breath smelled of stale coffee and burnt sugar. You had filled it out three times, the ink on the third copy still wet when you handed it over, your hands trembling not from cold but from the specific, grinding exhaustion of a man who has run out of arguments. You wanted the northern post, a quiet...
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