The Distant Affair
The air in the chancellery always tasted of dry paper and old dust, a scent that seemed to settle into the pores of anyone who lingered too long in its shadowed halls. I sat at the heavy oak desk, the wood polished to a mirror sheen by decades of anxious hands, and watched the light filter through the high, arched windows. It was late afternoon in the capital, the season turning that crisp,...
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