The Faded Photograph
The pen tip bites into the paper. You press down. The ink does not dry. It spreads. A black bruise blooms under the nib, soaking through the cheap bond stock, darkening the white fibers until the page looks wet, looks alive. You pull your hand back. The stain is on your skin. It is not ink. It is a mark. You are Elias. You are forty-two. You are standing in the Bureau of Final Accounts in...
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