The Pale Dance
Act I Who decides if a man was real? The question hung in the air of the Ministry of Cultural Heritage, heavier than the dust that coated the linoleum. I stood before the desk of Director Okafor, my hands trembling not from fear, but from the cold seeping through my coat. In my arms, I held the wooden box. It was small, no larger than a shoebox, but it hummed against my ribs, a low, rhythmic...
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