The Pale Verdict
The dream is always the same: a path of pale flagstones, fractured down the center, the pieces sliding apart like tectonic plates under the weight of an invisible god. You wake with the taste of chalk dust in your mouth, the cold air of the Ministry’s basement clinging to your skin like a second layer of clothes. It is the year 1893, or perhaps it is not, for time in the Ministry of Records...
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