The Faded Attic
Zara Hussain stood before the obsidian mirror, her uniform pressed tight against a chest that heaved with the effort of holding still, the glass a black pool that reflected not her face but the trembling of her hands. The room smelled of linoleum and stale ink, the air thick with the dry thunder of a storm that refused to break, while the flag rope against the pole outside creaked in a rhythm...
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