The Golden Scar
Act I Franca Trapani, thirty-two, had spent nine years in the Ministry of Memory, her tenure perpetually suspended by the ink-stained fingers of the clerks who watched her work. The air in the archive room always tasted of dry rot and iron, a metallic tang that coated the back of the throat, and the only sound was the hiss of the oil lanterns as they burned low against the draft from the high,...
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