The Golden Farce
The iron chisel was cold in your hand, its weight a dull ache that traveled up your wrist and settled into the bones of your forearm, a tool you had not used since the restoration of the East Wing’s ledger room three years prior. You stood in the corridor of the Ministry of Internal Records, the fluorescent lights humming their low, electric hymn above you, casting a flat, sterile glow over the...
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