The Wistful Petal
The rain fell on the Ministry of Records like a shroud, gray and endless. Elias Thorne stood at the window of his office, watching the water streak down the glass, blurring the city below into a smear of charcoal and slate. He was forty-two years old, a mid-level clerk who had spent two decades organizing the past while his own future dissolved into uncertainty. On his desk lay a single sheet...
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