The Wistful Silence
The office of the Department of Cultural Integrity was a place where silence had a texture, thick and gelatinous, like the static charge before a lightning strike. I sat at my desk, a monolith of polished oak that reflected my own pallor, and watched the rain smear against the high, arched windows. Outside, the city of London was dissolving into a grey mist, but inside, the air was sterile,...
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