The Wistful Ashes
The air in the Ministry of Continuity tastes of ozone and crushed mint, a sterile sweetness that coats the back of your throat and refuses to be swallowed, hanging there like a thick, invisible film that marks the boundary between the living and the archived. You stand before the Great Ledger, a monolithic slab of polished obsidian that stretches from the floor to the vaulted ceiling of the...
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