The Wistful Petal
The banquet of the Ministry is a grotesque affair, a long table of polished oak where the silverware clinks with the precise, hollow rhythm of a clock counting down to nothing. You sit at the far end, Elias Thorne, forty-two, your hands trembling beneath the tablecloth, the vibration so distinct it hums in your teeth like a plucked wire. You want only the pension, the quiet dignity of a full...
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