The Wistful Incense
The rain lashed against the high, arched windows of the Ministry of Records, blurring the view of the grey city into a watercolor smear that matched the mood of the archive. You are Elias, thirty-two years old, a junior archivist with ink-stained fingers and a heart that beats in time with the rhythmic clacking of the typewriter next to you. You want the permanent post, the one that sits above...
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