The Wistful Silence
The basement of the Ministry of Records smelled of dust and dry rot, a scent that Elias Thorne had long since stopped noticing, though it now seemed to cling to his clothes like a second skin. He sat hunched over the steel table, the fluorescent light buzzing overhead with a frequency that drilled into his temples, illuminating the fragment of paper he had pulled from the sealed cabinet. The...
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