The Golden Scar
The fire started in the boiler room. It ate the wood, the iron, the silence. We stood on the balcony, watching the smoke rise into the grey London sky. It looked like a wound opening in the air. I held Elara’s hand. She was shaking. Not from cold. From knowing. We were in the Ministry of Truth’s annex. Not the main building. That one was too bright, too white, too full of men who believed their...
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