The Golden Scar
The letter from the Bureau of Continuity arrived on a Tuesday, the paper thick and cream-colored, smelling faintly of the sulfur used in their ink, a scent that had begun to cling to my clothes and my hair like a second skin. I sat at my desk in the cramped archive office, the rain hammering against the single pane of glass, blurring the grey streets of Vael into a watercolor smear, and I read...
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