The Golden Song
The train hissed into the station, a long, shuddering exhale that seemed to strip the warmth from the air, and I stepped onto the platform with my leather case clutched to my chest, feeling the weight of it not as a burden, but as a second skin. I was going to the Ministry of Truth, or rather, the Department of Historical Correction, a building that did not exist on any map but loomed over the...
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