The Wistful Silence
The dream always began with the smell of burnt sugar and the sterile, antiseptic bite of industrial disinfectant, a contradiction that my mind struggled to reconcile until I woke in the narrow, windowless office of the Ministry of Domestic Compliance. I am a mid-level archivist, a clerk whose days are measured not in hours but in the weight of paper, in the accumulation of dust on files that no...
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