The Faded Dust
You count the hours. That is the first thing you do every morning in the Ministry of Records. You count them on your fingers, one by one, until the knuckles ache. Twelve hours in the archive. Four hours in the filing room. Two hours of silence before the Minister’s office opens. You have done this for nine years. You are forty-two years old, and your back hurts when it rains, which is often....
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