The Wistful Ashes
March 12, 2144. I am holding a Form 7-B, the paper is thick and cold under my thumbs, the ink on my finger smearing into a dark, greasy streak that looks like a bruise. I have sat in this office for four hours, waiting for Director Halloway to acknowledge my presence, but the air in here is still and heavy with the smell of stale coffee and ozone from the ventilation units. My sister, Mara, has...
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