The Faded Road
The rain in the city does not fall; it sits. It is a heavy, gray thing that presses against the windows of the ministry building, blurring the neon lights of the street below into smears of electric blue and sickly yellow. You stand in your office, a room that smells of stale coffee and ozone, and look at the document on your desk. It is a single sheet of paper, thin as onion skin, bearing the...
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