The Wistful Ashes
The air in the Archive Room was thick with the scent of decaying vellum and the metallic tang of old ink. You sat at the heavy oak table, the wood worn smooth by centuries of elbows and ink-stained fingers. Before you lay the manuscript, a bound collection of case files from the early years of the Bureau of Behavioral Compliance. You were here to verify the provenance of a specific document, a...
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