The Wistful Silence
The rain had been falling on the Ministry of Records for three days, a grey, persistent sheet that turned the street below into a blur of slate and shadow. I sat at my desk, the wood cold against my forearms, staring at the stack of files labeled *Silence Protocol, Batch 14*. My left hand rested on the leather blotter, fingers curled slightly, and I felt nothing there. No pressure from the...
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