The Faded Dust
The banquet hall of the Bureau of Archival Integrity did not smell of food, but of a sterile, aggressive silence that pressed against the eardrums like deep water, and the long mahogany table stretched out before Elias Thorne like a horizon line drawn in dark, unyielding ink, where the heads of the Department sat in their ceremonial black robes, their faces arranged in expressions of polite...
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