The Pale Tale
Why did Abena Lawan keep the silver thread when the world had burned the rest of her dignity? The air in the queue at the Whitmore Dome tasted of ozone and wet wool, a cloying scent that clung to the back of her throat before the grey light of the dome even pierced the gloom. She stood for three hours, her feet numb in the damp, watching the ticket taker, a retired man with hands like dried...
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