The Pale Meridian
The tremor in my left hand was not a gentle vibration but a violent, arrhythmic shudder that made the ink blur into a black smear across the intake form. I am Elara Vane, forty-two years old, a mid-level archivist in the Ministry of Cultural Preservation, and I have three weeks to secure my permanent tenure or be cast out into a world that has no place for women who can no longer hold a pen...
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