The Golden Scar
You count the stitches in the lining of your coat as you wait, one, two, three, a rhythm that keeps the cold at bay. The air in the Ministry of Aesthetics is always dry, a sterile chill that settles into the joints and makes the gold-threaded collar you wear feel heavier with every passing minute. You are Elias, thirty-two, a low-level censor, and your job is to decide which poems are too heavy...
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