The Distant Crown
The letter lay on my desk, its paper thin as onion skin, the ink a dry, flaking black that smelled of iron and old dust. It was a formal notice from the Bureau of Censorship, citing "unauthorized resonance" in my archival logs, a charge that sounded like a medical diagnosis for a disease I did not know I had. I signed it, the pen scratching against the grain, because in the Ministry of Records,...
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