The Wistful Atlas
Thorne. The name hung in the air, spoken by the radio static, a summons that cut through the hum of the ventilation fan. I straightened my back, ignoring the ache in my left knee, and walked toward the processing room. The walls of Station 4 were a pale, institutional gray, but the dampness had turned them a bruised purple near the floor. It was a persistent, domestic decay, the kind that eats...
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