The Wistful Saga
The red ink bled into the graph paper, a jagged scar across the foundation plan, and I watched the line waver as my hand trembled, the pen tip digging too deep into the fiber. It was four in the afternoon, the light slanting low and orange through the dusty blinds of my office, cutting sharp geometric shadows across the linoleum floor where a single hair from the ceiling fan lay curled like a...
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