The Distant Wound
The exemption form, Form 7-C, sat in your hands, the paper thin and damp with the sweat of your palms. You had held it for three days, turning it over, checking the ink, wondering if the smudge on the left margin was enough to invalidate the signature you had just pressed into the wet black. You were Elias Thorne, forty-two, an archivist in the Ministry of Continuity, and you wanted only one...
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