The Faded Ruin
The fluorescent lights in the sub-basement of the Ministry of Historical Correction hummed with a frequency that seemed to vibrate directly in the marrow of my bones, a constant, sterile drone that replaced the silence I had once known in the garden where my mother used to grow foxgloves. I am Elias, though the personnel file on my desk lists me as Archivist Unit 7-Alpha, a designation that has...
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