The Distant Garden
The ledger sat on the desk like a dead bird, its spine cracked and leaking a faint, metallic scent that clung to the air of the Ministry of Memory’s central archive. Elias, forty-two and senior archivist, watched the dust motes dance in the slant of afternoon light, his fingers hovering over the cold leather cover, aware that the weight of the object was not merely physical but gravitational,...
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