The Pale Fracture
The purge began at dawn, a sterile gray light filtering through the high windows of the Ministry of Memory. Elias Thorne, thirty-two and a senior archivist, stood before the incinerator, his hands steady as he fed the first batch of documents into the chute. He was there to secure his promotion. The protocol was simple: identify the fractured records, the ones where the Ink had bled through,...
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