The Wistful Throne
The door to the Department of Civil Records was ajar. I stood on the wet pavement, my breath hitching in the cold air, staring at the gap in the wood. Inside, a faint, cold mist coiled from the threshold, curling around my shoes like a living thing. I had come for my father’s pension, the last remnant of his thirty years of labor, but the air inside felt heavy, suffocating, and wrong. I pushed...
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