The Wistful Cipher
The orchid in the corner of my office had not bloomed in three weeks, its petals curled inward like dying fingers, a silent testament to the neglect that had become the architecture of my life since I was transferred to the Department of Internal Integrity. I sat behind a desk that smelled of stale coffee and floor wax, staring at the monitor where the name of the woman in question blinked with...
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