The Wistful Ashes
The alarm clock on the steel table beside my cot did not tick; it hummed, a low, electric drone that vibrated through the mattress and into my bones. I was Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, and for the past six years I had served as a Senior Archivist in the Ministry of Civic Harmony. My hands were clean, my record unblemished, and my life was a series of gray corridors and silent desks. But...
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