The Wistful Witness
The marble floor of the Ministry of Internal Affairs is cold enough to seep through the soles of your boots, a chill that travels up your shins and settles into the old fracture in your left knee, a pain you have carried since the border skirmish at Kessel’s Ridge six years ago, a wound that never fully knit but which now serves as a metronome for your existence, ticking out the seconds of your...
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