The Wistful Ashes
You are standing in the vast, cold hall of the Ministry of Continuity, where the air smells of damp stone and old paper, a scent that has seeped into the very fibers of your being over the last thirty years. The walls are lined with shelves that stretch up into the gloom, holding not books but ledgers, each one a testament to a life that has been smoothed, corrected, and filed away to maintain...
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