The Faded Photograph
The light was low and grey when the summons came, a flat piece of paper sliding under the door of your bunk. Thomas. Report to the Office. Do not be late. You were thirty-two years old, and the weight of that number sat heavy in your chest, a stone you had carried for a decade. You wanted the permanent post. You wanted the security. But the new classification protocol, the rigid grid of data...
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