The Faded Portrait

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2026-08-22 16:49:02 -

The office smelled of wet plaster and the metallic tang of old blood, a scent that had settled into the very grain of the desks since the first raid, and I sat at my cramped table in the basement of the Ministry of Internal Records, watching the ink bleed through the page like a slow, black bruise. I was thirty years old, a clerk of no particular distinction, and I wanted only to be noticed, to...

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