The Wistful Ashes
The seal on the file was red, a small, violent spot against the grey manila folder, and Elias Thorne’s thumb pressed against it with a steadiness that felt rehearsed, practiced over twenty years of handling documents that did not belong to him. The Ministry of Continuity did not have windows, only light panels that hummed with a low, electric buzz, a sound so constant it had become the baseline...
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