The Wistful Ashes
The count was precise: forty-one years of service, rendered in ink on a form that felt lighter than paper, lighter than the truth Elias Thorne had spent the last decade trying to pin down. He stood in the basement of the Bureau of Labor Records in Oakhaven, the air thick with the scent of sulfur and old wool, while the official ledger for the 1919 Strike burned itself to ash in his hands. It...
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