The Golden Maze
The brass compass in my hands was heavier than it had any right to be, its casing worn smooth by two decades of Ministry fieldwork, the glass face cracked in a spiderweb that I had never bothered to repair because the needle still swung with a terrifying, precise fidelity. I sat at my desk in the Ministry of Reclamation, the fluorescent lights humming a low, sickly note that seemed to sync with...
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