The Pale Fracture
The train from Dover to London was a metal box that hummed with a low, anxious frequency, and I sat in it with my briefcase under my feet, feeling the vibration travel up through the soles of my shoes and settle in my jaw. I was a senior compliance officer for the Bureau of Historical Reconciliation, a title that sounded more dignified than the reality, which was mostly staring at spreadsheets...
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