The Pale Banner
The paper was thin, translucent with age, and it smelled of dust and old iron as you held it up to the light of the desk lamp. It was a form, a pension claim, and your name was printed at the top in a typeface that had long since gone out of style, but the signature line at the bottom was blank, waiting for the ink that would seal your fate and secure the four pounds a week that would keep the...
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