The Pale Garden
Act I Thị Yen stood in the comms relay shed, the rain hammering the corrugated roof with a rhythm that felt less like weather and more like an accusation, while I checked the pressure suit patch on my left shoulder, the third repair holding only by a thread of hope and stubbornness. The wind outside was taking the washing, snapping the lines and scattering the sheets across the muddy yard of...
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