The stamp went down.
Click.
It was a small sound.
Hard.
Final.
Elias held his breath.
The ink was black.
The paper was white.
The mark was red.
He looked at his hands.
They shook.
He put them on the desk.
Wood was cold.
Outside, the rain hit the glass.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
A rhythm.
Like a clock.
Or a heart.
He was a stamper.
That was his job.
He had done it for forty years.
His father had done it....
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