The Golden Master
The transfer order lay on the metal desk, its edges curling slightly from the humidity of the basement, a document that smelled of wet cardboard and the sharp, metallic tang of ozone that permeated the sub-basement of the National Records Repository. Elara Vane, thirty-two, a Senior Archivist with twelve years of service and a salary that barely covered her rent in the city, read the line item...
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