The Wistful Saga
The air in the basement archives of the Ministry of Records did not smell of dust, as Elias Thorne had once romanticized in his youth, but of damp wool and the faint, acidic tang of decaying paper, a scent that had slowly permeated his clothes, his skin, and the very fibers of his being until he could no longer distinguish his own identity from the bureaucratic residue of the state. At...
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