The Golden Scar
The rain in the Ministry of Memory does not fall so much as it accumulates, a fine, metallic mist that settles on the shoulders of the archivist and seeps into the collar, carrying with it the faint, ozone-tang of overheated servers. You are Elias Thorne, thirty-two years old, and you have spent the last six hours standing before the ventilation grate in Sub-Level Four, your ear pressed against...
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