The weight of forgotten things sits on Arthur's chest like a stone slab bound in golden leather.
Seventeen days. That is what the Ledger said when he opened it for the first time, in the damp back room of a willow-merchant's shop on Dorset Street. Seventeen days until his heart stopped. Seventeen days until the dark came for him, as certain as tide and as uninterested in his objections as any force in nature. He had thought it a joke. Then he read the first entry, and the room dissolved....
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