The Distant Nightmare
The letter lay on the desk, the ink still wet, the paper thin and brittle as old skin. It was a standard Ministry form, Form 7-B, regarding the finalization of pension eligibility. You signed it without reading the fine print, your hand steady despite the tremor in your left knee that had grown worse since the autumn. The signature was a loop, a habit from your father’s drafting table, and it...
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