The Wistful Witness
The archive smelled of dried lichen and old fear. Caitriona Whelan sat at her desk in the Imperial Archive, the silence of the room pressing against her eardrums like deep water. She was thirty-two, a scribe of the lower rank, her hands stained a permanent violet from years of handling the iron-gall ink. The task was simple: transcribe the border massacre reports into the official ledger. It...
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