The Wistful Silence
Act I I remember the cold of the watchtower not as a temperature but as a texture, a gritty, splintered pressure against the skin that made the ink in my pen shiver before it touched the parchment. Min-seo Han, the name on the survey license, felt less like an identity and more like a job title, a heavy coat I wore for five years until the lining wore thin and let the wind in. The Shattered...
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