The Wistful Witness
The letter lay on the desk, its edges curling slightly in the dry autumn air, the ink still wet where the Ministry’s seal had been pressed, a bureaucratic bruise of red wax that seemed to pulse in the dim light of the office. Elias Thorne, thirty-two and already wearing the dust of the archives in his hair, read the directive three times, the words *immediate surrender of foreign-origin texts*...
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