The Wistful Ashes
The banquet hall of the Ministry of Continuity smelled of ozone and synthetic lavender. Elara sat at the long mahogany table, her fork hovering over a plate of gray protein paste, while the biometric scanners embedded in the tablecloth hummed against her wrist. She was thirty-four, a number that felt less like an age and more like a countdown. The Chief Archivist, Thomas Bradshaw, sat at the...
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