The Distant Ghost
The knowledge park hummed with the sterile efficiency of a machine that had forgotten its purpose, its glass towers reflecting a sky the color of bruised iron, while the flood-control channel sat dry and cracked like an old man’s knuckles, a scar across the valley floor. I am Liv Berg, fifty-two years old, and I stand at the edge of my dissolution, my hands trembling so violently that I can no...
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