The Faded Portrait
The rain hit the glass. It was steady. Cold. I watched it streak down the windowpane of the briefing room. The water ran in long, silver lines. It looked like tears. Or maybe just dirt. The room was small. Sterile. White walls. Fluorescent lights hummed a low, sick note. It was the Ministry of Internal Security. Level four. We were here for the quarterly review. I sat at the far end of the...
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