The Wistful Ashes
Elara stood before the gray door of Director Halloway’s office, her fingers trembling against the cold metal handle. She had been an archivist for six years, and in that time, she had inhaled enough burnt memory to make her lungs feel like they were lined with velvet and sandpaper. She wanted out. She wanted the rural archives in the countryside, where the air was thin and the memories were old...
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