The Distant Threshold
The hall hums with a low, electric thrum. You stand in the center of the office, a square of linoleum worn to a dull gray by decades of shuffling feet. Around you, the air is thick with the scent of old paper and ozone. This is the Department of Records, a place where history is not written but preserved, filed, and slowly forgotten. You are an archivist. You are also the only one who hears the...
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