The Golden Scar
The leather-bound volume in your hands is warm, not from the room’s ambient heat, but from the friction of your palms, which have been rubbing together for three hours to keep the cold from settling into your knuckles. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, an archivist of the third grade at the Ministry of Memory, and you want your pension, the one that will allow you to keep the roof over...
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