The Distant Wound
The celebration began with the counting of corks, a rhythmic, wet pop that echoed in the sterile, windowless air of the Ministry’s archive, where the temperature was held at a constant, bone-chilling six degrees to preserve the paper and the lies. I stood at the edge of the long oak table, my hands wrapped around a glass of lukewarm sherry, feeling the tremor in my fingers that had nothing to...
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