The Wistful Dinner
The ink was already on her thumb, cold and wet as a fish scale, when Sinead Delaney reached for the next page of the file. She worked in the recycling level of the Bureau, a space that smelled permanently of damp paper and the diesel-fueled generators that kept the air scrubbers running, and her task was simple enough on paper: catalog the final entry of the Weeping Willow Incident before the...
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