The Pale Door
The notice was pinned to the corkboard with a rusted nail, the paper yellowed and brittle under the weight of the morning’s dust. It was a standard reprimand, signed in Vane’s jagged scrawl, detailing my unauthorized absence from the stamping press during the second shift of the previous day. I read it twice, the words blurring into the grey haze of the factory floor, then folded it into a...
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