The Faded Root
The ink is not drying; it is drinking. You watch the black fluid seep into the grain of the mahogany desk, pulling the fibers into a tight, dark knot, and you realize with a cold, clinical precision that your tenure file is no longer in the cabinet. It is in the wood. The Ministry of Records has always been a place of silence, a cathedral of paper and dust where the air tasted of formaldehyde...
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