The Pale Garden
Maryam Ahmed’s hands were already deep in the pale green sludge when the light failed. The mortar was cold, heavier than it had been an hour ago, the stone slick with a residue that smelled of wet earth and something sharper, like the ozone before a storm in the hydroponics bay. She ground in circles, a steady, rhythmic pressure that she had learned from watching her father’s hands, though his...
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