The Pale Banner
Amelie Caron had been dead for three days before they found the uniform, but the fog on the ridge of the Puy-de-Dôme did not care for the calendar. It cared only for the silence it swallowed, the way a coal tipple swallows the night shift, grinding sound into dust. She stood at the edge of the void, twenty-four years old, her hands raw from the cold, holding a ledger that weighed nothing and...
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