The Distant Garden
The heavy iron stamp sits in your palm, cold and dense as a stone pulled from a riverbed, its surface worn smooth by decades of administrative weight. It is a tool of finality, designed to crush paper into submission, yet today it feels less like an instrument of order and more like a shackle you are reluctant to release. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a senior archivist at the...
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