The Pale Door
You are standing in the antechamber of the Ministry, where the air tastes of dust and polished mahogany, and the silence is not empty but heavy, a physical weight that presses against your eardrums. You have been here for three hours, waiting for a name to be called, for a door to open, for the machinery of justice to grind forward another fraction of a millimeter. The clock on the wall, a...
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