The Distant Legend
The ink is wet on the page, a black smear that refuses to dry, and your hand trembles against the cold oak of the desk. It is November, and the Ministry of Records smells of dust and damp wool, a scent that has settled into the fibers of your coat over twenty years of service. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, and you have one month left before the fiscal year ends. If you do not finalize the...
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