The Faded Sutra
The mud is thick. It coats your boots, your trousers, the hem of your coat. You are running. Not for the enemy. Not for cover. You are running because the order came through the static, and the order is a name, and the name is yours. You are Thomas Bradshaw. You are a clerk. You are forty-two years old and you have spent the last decade in a windowless room in the basement of the Ministry,...
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