The Pale Meridian
The notice from the Guild of Casters, stamped in red wax, stated plainly: Lease terminated. Rent doubled effective the first of the moon. Failure to remit payment results in immediate eviction and seizure of goods. I read it three times, the paper thin as onion skin, while the sound of the sewing machines in the relay below grew louder, a rhythmic clatter that seemed to vibrate in my teeth. I...
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