The Wistful Ashes
The letter was short, stamped with the grey seal of the Bureau of Aesthetics. It listed the items I had failed to surrender last quarter: a red scarf, a broken pocket watch, and the silver clasp from my brother’s coat. I signed the confession with a steady hand, the ink drying quickly in the cold air of the room. My sister, Elara, sat on the bed, her face pale as the plaster, watching me with...
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