The Faded Sutra
The building fell. Not with a roar, but with a sigh. Dust plumed upward, a gray cloud that swallowed the sun. It settled on the shoulders of the staff. It settled in their hair. It settled in their lungs. They coughed. They waited. The institution was the Bureau of Archival Continuity. It stood in the shadow of a cathedral in a city whose name had been changed three times in a century. It was a...
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