The Faded Root
"You’re defective, Opal. The committee has voted." The words hung in the air, sharp and cold, cutting through the low hum of the overhead fans that rattled in their rusted brackets. I stood at the center of the floor, the oil-slicked concrete reflecting the yellow gaslight, and I looked at the faces of the men who had worked under my supervision for fifteen years. They were not looking at me as...
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