The Distant Journey
The pen was scratching against the ledger when the knock came, a dull, rhythmic thud against the metal door of the outpost that vibrated through the soles of your boots. You did not look up immediately; your fingers were busy, ink staining the tips, recording the weight of seized tobacco, the serial numbers of unregistered radios. It was the sound of the world refusing to stop, even here in the...
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