The Distant Garden
The water-damaged box slips from your hands, spilling yellowed files across the linoleum. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, and your knuckles are white as you scramble to catch the falling paper. The smell of mildew is thick in the air, a physical weight pressing against your lungs. You are an archivist in the municipal records office, a windowless tomb of bureaucracy where history is filed and...
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