The Wistful Asylum
What does a life cost when it is written in ink that drinks? Radmila Ivanovic stood in the center of the sealed warehouse, the air thick with the metallic tang of rust and the damp, salty rot of the sea fret pressing against the corrugated tin roof. She was thirty-four, though the Mirror Ink had stolen three years of her vitality, leaving her joints stiff and her breath shallow, a physical debt...
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