The Distant Wound
The coughing fit that broke Elara Vance’s concentration was not a sound but a violation, a wet, rattling tear in the sterile silence of her office in the Ministry of Cognitive Stability. She pressed a handkerchief to her lips, and when she pulled it away, the white cotton was stained with a dark, rust-colored spot that seemed to pulse in the harsh fluorescent light. Elara was sixty years old, a...
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