The Wistful Ashes
Chapter One Joséphine Chargois was thirty-two years old and owed the state a debt of memory that could only be paid in blood, a fact that sat in her throat like a stone every time she looked at the gray linoleum of the processing bay. The heat in the room was oppressive, a physical weight that pressed against her temples, and the air smelled of ozone and stale sweat, a scent that had long since...
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