The Wistful Petal
Could a man truly be erased by a paper trail? The question hung in the air of the salt-pan settlement, thick as the brine that coated the standing stones. Eoin Lenehan, thirty-four, sat in the office above the factory noise, his left ear bleeding steadily onto the quarterly report. The hemorrhage was not pain, but a weight, a siphon that pulled the warmth from his skull and deposited it into...
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