The Faded Ruin
The damp air in the Ministry of Memory tasted of iron and old rain, a metallic tang that coated the back of my throat as I sat hunched over the transcription desk, my twelve-year-old hands trembling not from cold but from the terrifying, slow dissolution of the ink before me. I am Elias, a junior scribe in Grade Four, and my sole purpose in this windowless, industrial cavern is to copy the...
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