The Distant Garden
The first thing they take from you is your name, and the second is your hands, but the third, the truest theft, is the memory of what those hands were for. You are seated in the antechamber of the Ministry of Civic Harmony, a room that smells of floor wax and old fear, where the air is so still it feels like water. Across from you sits a man in a suit the color of bruised plums, his face a...
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