The Faded Guest
The separation from the Ministry of Records was not a door closing, but a slow exhalation of air from a room that had held its breath for decades, and you, Elias Thorne, stood in the center of that expanding silence, forty-two years old, your tenure stripped away like skin from a bruised limb, watching the dust motes dance in the slanting afternoon light that pierced the high, barred windows of...
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