The Wistful Crossroads
The audit begins on a Tuesday, the air in the Ministry of Memory thick with the smell of ozone and old paper, and you are already three days behind because the Silent Ward has started to hum. You want tenure, Margaret, or Mara as the system prefers to call you in the digital index, and you want it badly enough to ignore the cold pressure building behind your left eye, a pressure that feels less...
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