The Distant Joke
Zara Swati’s fingers were already wet with ink when the light failed, the black liquid seeping into the whorls of her skin like a second pulse. She was hunched over the orbital loading dock’s manifest, a sheaf of brittle paper bound with wire, her breath held in the dry, recycled air of the attic where the emigrated children’s things gathered dust. The task was halfway done, the cipher of the...
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