The Faded Ruin
The fluorescent lights of the Ministry of Memory hummed with a low, electric drone that Elias Vane had long since learned to mistake for the sound of his own blood. He sat at his desk in Sector Four, the air around him sterile and cold, tasting of ozone and recycled dust, while before him lay the single, faded photograph of his sister, Clara. She was twenty-two in the image, her hair pulled...
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