The Wistful Ashes
The notice was pinned to the oak door, its edges curling in the damp: Property of the State. Memory is a Debt. Rosaria Costa stood before the kiln, the heat pressing against her forehead like a heavy hand. She was thirty, a Warden of Sector 9, and her duty was to burn the last illegal orchid. The air in the temple infirmary was heavy with ash and old blood. The orchid sat in a clay pot, its...
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