The Distant Wound
The deletion order lay on the mahogany desk, its paper so thin it seemed to vibrate under the hum of the ventilation system, bearing the crisp, bureaucratic stamp of the Ministry of Memory. I looked at the signature at the bottom, Halloway’s, looping with a familiar, arrogant precision, and then at the name in the center: Elias Thorne. It was my father’s name, printed in the same font as the...
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