The Pale Fracture
The light in the Ministry of Memory is always the color of old tea, a murky amber that pools in the corners of the reading rooms and clings to the spines of the leather-bound volumes. You have counted the hours since the sun last touched the window, four hours of that stagnant glow, and you have weighed the silence against the sound of the dust settling on the floorboards, a sound like fine...
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