The Pale Garden
Chapter One The dust here does not settle; it integrates. It coats the gills of the maintenance divers, it gums the hydraulic seals of the orbital cemetery bays, and it finds its way into the teeth of the clock in the wrong tower, which ticks with a delayed, arrhythmic thud that we all pretend not to hear. I am Fiona Munro, thirty-two, and for the past six years I have been the Head Archivist...
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