The Wistful Ashes
The air in the Grand Atrium of the Ministry of Continuity tasted of ozone and crushed mint, a sterile perfume designed to mask the underlying scent of fear that permeated the polished marble floors, and you stood at the center of the rotating dais, your fingers trembling not from cold but from the sheer, overwhelming weight of the silence that had fallen over the three hundred attendees of the...
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