The Faded Ruin
The list of requisitions lay on the steel table, the ink smudged where my left hand had trembled against the paper. I signed it, the loop of the final letter shaky, a small fracture in the neatness of the bureaucratic record. The Rot, they called it, a tremor that started in the fingertips and worked its way up the wrist, a symptom the State claimed was a relic of the old world, cured by the...
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