The Pale Fracture
The iron bell above the heavy oak door did not ring with a clear, metallic chime but with a dull, wet thud, a sound that seemed to originate not from the metal itself but from the hollow spaces within the walls of the Ministry of Temporal Correction, a vast and labyrinthine institution where the air was always thick with the scent of ozone and stale parchment, and where the light, filtered...
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