The Wistful Ashes
The transfer request form was three pages long, weighed down by a single brass paperclip that had rusted at the edges. You counted the seconds as the pneumatic tube hissed, the sound like a lung clearing of phlegm, while the light from the overhead fluorescent tube flickered and died, leaving you in the grey gloom of the Ministry of Memory’s sub-basement. You wanted out. You wanted the quiet,...
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