The Pale Fracture
The requisition form for Sector Four’s grain reserves lay on the desk, the ink still wet and smelling of iron and pine, a document that promised me the quiet dignity of a pension after twelve years of service in the Compliance Corps. I held the pen, my hand steady despite the cold that had settled into the joints of my fingers, a chill that seemed to radiate from the stone walls of the office...
0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 1 Views 0 Anteprima