The Distant Clue
We stood in the antechamber of the Ministry, the air thick with the smell of damp wool and stale tobacco, waiting for the Minister to decide if we were still fit for duty, or if we were merely ghosts haunting the corridors of a bureaucracy that had forgotten the war was ever real. My hands, usually steady enough to disassemble a jammed action at fifty paces in the rain, trembled now, a fine...
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