The Wistful Witness
The ledger said forty-two minutes. That was the time I had spent polishing the rim of the porcelain urn, a task measured in strokes of chamois and the weight of the ceramic in my hands. I am Elias, twelve years old, a junior archivist at the Hall of Records, and I count everything because counting is the only thing that keeps the silence from becoming a scream. The urn was my mother’s. It had...
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