The Wistful Letter
The day of my departure from the Institute of Paleographic Studies was the coldest the city had seen in forty years, and I remember how the frosted windows of the reading room caught the low, sallow sun in such a way that the dust motes floating in the air seemed to be made of gold, a final, generous benediction from a building that had, for the better part of a decade, been my sanctuary and my...
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