The Wistful Saga
The pen in your hand is heavy, a steel fountain pen with a brass nib that has seen better decades. You hold it over the affidavit, the ink wet and black against the cream-colored paper. This is the moment you have engineered for three months. The air in the Ministry’s reading room is thick with the scent of decaying lignin and dust, a perfume that usually soothes you but today feels like a...
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