The Faded Paradox
Act I "You are not a saint, Eilidh. You are a vessel." The voice was not the council’s; it was the damp itself, rising from the flagstones of the courthouse lobby where the smoke from the last cigarette still curled against the peeling wallpaper. Eilidh MacAskill, forty-two and retired, stood bound by the wrists, the rough hemp biting into skin that had known too much cold and too little rest....
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