The Distant Wound
The leather-bound case in Elara Vance’s hands was warm, the heat of her palms seeping into the cracked spine where the title had long since faded into a ghost of ink. It was the only object in the Ministry of Reconciliation that held a temperature other than the sterile, recycled chill of the air conditioning, a hum that vibrated in the floorboards and settled in the teeth like a low,...
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