The Pale Door
The ink on the letterhead is still wet when you unfold it, a dark, bleeding star against the stark white paper that smells of ozone and old fear. You sit at your desk, the third row, fourth column of the vast, humming atrium where the Department of Archival Integrity operates, and you feel the weight of the object in your hand as if it were a stone pulled from the riverbed. It is a seal,...
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