The Pale Fracture
The shawl whispered against my neck, a dry friction that sounded like the turning of pages, as I adjusted the cataloging tag on the seventh shelf of the Silent Ward. "It is not guilt, Elias," the voice murmured, thin and papery, indistinguishable from the static of the air conditioning. "It is preservation." I tightened my grip on the wool, the fibers of my late mother’s shawl now...
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