The Wistful Mirror
The invoice lay on the workbench, its edges curling slightly under the weight of a single, rusted pliers. It was a document of cold arithmetic, printed in a bureaucratic font that stripped all human warmth from the transaction: *Final Settlement: M. Thorne, Medical Debts. Amount Due: $14,500.00. Due: Immediate.* I traced the line of figures with a calloused thumb, the paper gritty against the...
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