The Wistful Ashes
The light in the Ministry of Memory is never quite right; it is a flat, institutional white that bleaches the color from everything it touches, making the dust motes in the air look like suspended ash. I sat at my desk, the one with the cracked laminate surface where the paint had chipped away to reveal the raw gray underneath, and waited for the scanner to finish its low, humming whine. The...
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