The Pale Letter
The pension review is in three days. You count the hours on your fingers, knuckles stiff with the damp cold that seeps into the Ministry of Records from the stone walls. Fifty-two years old. Twenty-eight years of service. You need to clear your name, or at least keep the stain from spreading to your pension. The opposing force is not a rival, but your own mind, which has begun to fail you in a...
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