The Distant Garden
The incinerator’s intake chime sounds at 0900. It is a flat, electronic note that cuts through the sterile hum of the Ministry of Antiquities’ basement archives, a sound that signals the end of the final uncatalogued lot. You are forty-two years old. You have spent twenty years in this building, breathing in the dust of centuries, your lungs a filter for the past. You want to secure your...
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