The Faded Apartment
The ink on the ledger page had stopped moving, and I was still holding the pen. My name, Radmila Georgiev, was smeared across the entry for the whale-oil shipments, the letters bleeding into a dark, wet stain that looked less like a mistake and more like a wound. I worked in the archives of the mission district, a junior clerk sorting the papers of men who had converted to Christianity and then...
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