The Wistful Petal
Who can hold a line that is not made of stone? The question hung in the stale air of the night nursery, where the beeps of the monitors marked time like a metronome set to a funeral march. Haruto Kimura, thirty-five years old and a border warden for the Imperial Cycle, stood before the glass partition, watching the infants sleep in their rows of white plastic. He was not there to watch them; he...
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