The Wistful Saga
The denial order sat on the steel desk, the ink still wet and dark against the stark white paper, waiting for your signature. You looked at the form, then at Mara, who stood by the window with her arms crossed, her posture rigid with the kind of professional patience that usually preceded a confrontation. The air in the warden’s office smelled of old paper and the faint, metallic tang of the...
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