The Wistful Ashes
The letter was thin, the paper cheap and fibrous, smelling faintly of the chemical solvent used to treat archival documents. You held it under the fluorescent hum of your desk, the light buzzing in a frequency that seemed to drill into your teeth. It was a notification of asset seizure. Your name, Elias Thorne, was printed in the cold, sans-serif typeface of the Ministry of Memory. Below it, a...
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