The Golden Scar
The transfer request was three pages long, typed on the Ministry’s standard cream stock, weighed down by a single, heavy stamp of red ink that cost more than Elias’s weekly ration. He sat at his desk, counting the seconds between the hum of the ventilation system, a sound so constant it had become a second heartbeat. Thirty-four years old. Twelve years in service. The number of hours his mother...
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