The Pale Door
The memory of the ash still clung to Rahim Pratama’s fingertips as he sat on the bench at fifty-eight of Widow's Landing. It was a trick of the light, or perhaps the damp heat of the Singapore afternoon pressing against his skin, but he knew the texture of the void where the door had been. Three weeks prior, he had been a senior archivist in the Bureau, a man whose life was measured in...
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