The Wistful Ashes
The ink on my ledger had begun to weep before I even reached my desk. It was a slow, dark seep, spreading across the page like a bruise forming under skin, staining the date with a black that seemed to pull the light out of the room. I wiped it with my thumb, but the stain only deepened, a small, wet wound in the paper. "Mr. Thorne." Director Vane’s voice cut through the hum of the ventilation...
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