The Wistful Show
You are not the keeper, Elias. Silas’s voice was thin, stretched over the linoleum floor like old varnish. Elias did not look up from the vellum. His fingers, stained with iron-gall ink, hovered over a tear in the margin. The Ministry of Records was silent, save for the hum of the ventilation shafts and the dry scratch of his own breath. He was forty-two. The final review was in six days. If he...
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