PREVIEW

... ouse.

Yes, real writing.

Ink. Paper. Silence.

Not his usual click, click, typing on a laptop.

For reasons he couldn't quite put into words, not yet, he had decided not to type this time. It wasn't about being nostalgic, or making some grand statement. It was just... instinct.

He sat at the long wooden desk near the back of his private study, pen in hand, hunched over a fresh stack of paper - not the usual printer sheets that smelled of toner and bureaucrac ...

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When the enemy comes to ransack your home.

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