The Faded Photograph
The pen was slick with sweat, the ink pooling in the nib like a dark, stagnant eye. You held it between your thumb and forefinger, the metal cold against your skin, while your father’s hand hovered above the parchment, trembling so violently that the paper rattled against the desk. It was nearly midnight in the Bureau of Records, a building of grey stone and iron grating that smelled of dust...
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