The Faded Frequency
Thomas. The name hung in the air, spat out by the Magistrate’s clerk with the casual disdain one might show a stain on a carpet. I stood in the center of the audit room, the floorboards cold and slick beneath my boots, feeling the weight of the silence pressing against my eardrums. The room smelled of damp wool and old ink, a suffocating blend that seemed to settle in the lungs. My brother’s...
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