The Pale Dance
My hands were already stained with the blue ink of the surveyor’s stylus when the dream broke. I was mapping the water rights for the dry decade, tracing the thin veins of ice across the recycled floor of our berth, eighty-four of Corvid Lane. The tide clock in the corridor ticked a slow, heavy rhythm, the only sound in the dark, and I could not stop my hand from shaking as I drew the line...
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