The Faded Root
The root was dry, brittle, and curled like a finger that had been broken and set wrong, and Elias held it between his thumb and forefinger with a pressure that made the skin whiten, staring at the fissures in the wood grain until the edges of his vision blurred into a grey static. It was the only thing in the Ministry of Temporal Corrections that did not hum with the low, electric thrum of the...
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