The Wistful Saga
The ledger in my hands was heavier than the gas ring on which my mother boiled the last of the potatoes, and I told her plainly that I would master the Silent Script to erase our debt, even if it cost me my childhood. The ink in the script writes itself when no one is looking, demanding a memory for every line, a rule I had learned by losing the face of my father in exchange for predicting the...
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