The Faded Root
"Put the lid on, boy, the air is turning." The voice of the driver, old and dry as the dust in the archives, cut through the humid silence of the reading room, where the light of the short winter day was already failing, leaving us in a grey, static gloom. I was twelve, a junior page in this modernist court of the Republic, a place that felt less like a government and more like a decaying house...
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