The Distant Whispers
The letter lay on the mahogany desk, its edges curling slightly in the dry heat of the radiator. It was a standard notification of review, printed on the heavy cream stock that the Ministry used for matters of personnel integrity, the ink a dull, bureaucratic grey. I read it twice, the paper feeling slick and cold under my fingertips, before I folded it into a small, precise square and placed...
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