The Pale Exile
Chapter One "We cannot file it if the ink refuses to hold, Joon-young Song," the clerk said, tapping the damp page with a fingernail that had lost its shine. The paper was soft, the way bread gets soft when left in a jar, and the words Joon-young had written about the desalination quota had begun to blur into grey smudges. He stood in the narrow office, the air smelling of wet wool and ozone,...
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