The Faded Photograph
The iron gate of the Whitehall complex did not creak, nor did it groan under the weight of the autumn rain that slicked the cobblestones with a sheen of oil and decay, but rather it slid open with a silence so profound and so violent in its absence of sound that it seemed to swallow the breath of everyone standing within the courtyard, a mechanical exhalation of the machine state itself which...
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