The Wistful Witness
The ink had begun to fade long before the boy did. It was a small thing, a smudge of violet pigment on the corner of a parchment, but in the quiet, dust-choked air of the archives, it felt like a bruise that would not heal. I sat at the high desk, my hands trembling slightly as I held the magnifying glass. The glass was cold. The air was colder. We were in the sub-basement of the Ministry, a...
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