The Golden Scar
The paper was thin, translucent, and smelled of the chemical solvent used to bleach ink from history. You held it up to the gray light filtering through the high windows of the Ministry of Memory, your thumb pressing the corner where your sister’s name should have been. It was not there. The line was blank, a void waiting for the quarterly purge to fill it with silence. You were Elias Thorne,...
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