The Distant Journey
The orchid in your hand is brown and brittle, its stems pulsing with a faint, wet rhythm that feels less like life and more like a fever. It is a Phalaenopsis, long dead by any horticultural standard, yet it whispers your name, *Elias*, in a voice that sounds like dry leaves skittering across pavement. You are sitting in the interrogation room on the fourth floor of the Ministry of Internal...
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