The Faded Masquerade
The air in the Grand Atrium of the Ministry of Continuity tasted of ozone and old paper, a dry, metallic tang that coated the back of my throat. I stood before the Calibration Council, my knees trembling not from fear, but from the sheer, crushing weight of the temporal load I carried in my marrow. My name is Elara Vance, and for forty years, I have been the Keeper of the Archive, the woman who...
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