The Distant Nightmare
The door to the sub-basement archive was open. It had been locked for six years, since the day you last descended the stairs with a box of tax ledgers from the pre-war era. Now it swung on silent hinges, revealing a corridor that smelled of ozone and wet copper, a scent that had no place in a building of dry dust and old paper. You checked your watch. 8:14 AM. The ministry was empty, save for...
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