The Pale Exile
The brass key in my hand is cold, its surface worn smooth by twenty years of my thumbs, and I am standing in the main reading room of the City Archives, holding a file that should not exist. I want to clear my name from the disciplinary ledger so I can collect my pension, which is owed to me for the last six years of service, but the opposing force is not a person or a policy; it is a whisper...
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