The Pale Letter
The bread is hard. It is a slab of grey, dense matter that sits upon the rough-hewn table like a stone that has fallen from the sky, and you pick it up with hands that tremble not from cold, though the cellar is cold, but from the sheer, terrifying weight of the silence that surrounds you. You are a clerk, a minor scribe in the vast, shadowed machinery of the Ministry of Provisions, and your...
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