The Wistful Mirror
Do you know why the glass in the Cold Room never fogs? I asked this question to the fishwife at the market court, but she only looked at the bruised mackerel in her basket and moved on. I was twenty-four years old, a junior clerk in the habitat’s administrative wing, and I had come to the market court to buy iodine and a pair of boots with soles that would hold up on the wet slate. The fog was...
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