The Wistful Mirror
Francesco Marino had forty years of rust on his lungs and a quota of three broken seals to fix before the mine collapsed, a fact that sat in his chest like a stone, heavy and cold. The airlock hissed, a long, exhalation of stale oxygen that smelled of ozone and old sweat, the only sound in the house of none, for there were no clocks here, only the hum of the life support that kept the colony...
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