The Pale Mist
You hold the stamp in your left hand. It is heavy. Cold metal against the skin of your palm. The brass has worn smooth where your thumb rests, a hollow place shaped by years of use. You are in the office. It is late. The fluorescent lights hum a low, electric note that vibrates in your teeth. Outside, the city sleeps, but here, in the seventh floor of the government building, the air is still...
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