The Faded Guest
Act I Could a man truly own the sound of his own labor? Cormac Dunne stood before the shuttered window of the retraining center, his hand resting on the cold iron latch, and listened to the silence that followed the closing of the shop front. It was a heavy, pressurized quiet, the kind that settles over a room after a debt has been paid in full. The thaw was rotting the roads outside, turning...
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