The Faded Ruin
Thorne, stop that. I hear the click of the heavy iron door sealing behind me, a sound that feels less like a lock engaging and more like a bone setting, final and irreversible. I am writing this from the sub-basement of the Ministry of Memory, a place that smells of damp limestone and the metallic tang of old iron, the air so still that the dust motes hanging in the beam of my flashlight seem...
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