The Golden Scar
Aurelio Beltrán remembered the cold before the heat, the way the air in the basement tasted of iron and wet paper. He was thirty-two, an archivist in the Bureau of Memory, and he wanted only to correct a single error in the national ledger, a minor discrepancy in the population count that threatened his permanent tenure. The server room hummed, a low, rhythmic vibration that no maintenance log...
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