The Pale Meridian
The question that had kept Yui Yamamoto awake since the drizzle began to outlast her coat was simple: what is the cost of a record that no one believes? She sat at the census taker’s desk, the wood worn smooth by forty years of hands, and watched the flag rope slap the pole in the grey morning light. The Imperial Botanical Survey was not a place for sentiment, yet her ledger of the Pteris genus...
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