The Faded Photograph
The white was not empty; it was a pressure, a sterile and absolute silence that pressed against my eardrums until I could hear the blood rushing in my own veins. I sat on the cold floor of the memory chamber, the Institute’s final archive for the forgotten, and stared at the object hovering before me: a silver locket, cracked down the center, its surface reflecting not my face but a distorted,...
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