The Wistful Grid
Act I Faye Gault had always known that the ink would find her, but she never expected it to start with the pension. She stood in the retraining center, the air thick with the dry cold that preserved everything, watching the union office door swing shut behind a man who owed her nothing. The High Council had labeled her rigid, a term that tasted like rust on the tongue, but she needed that seal...
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