The Pale Dance
The memo lay on the steel desk, its edges sharp against the cold metal, the ink still faintly damp as if the bureaucratic machinery had only just ceased its grinding. I read the denial from Colonel Vance for the third time, the words blurring into a gray smear that matched the snow piling against the frosted window of my outpost. It was a rejection of medical leave, a formal refusal to grant me...
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