The Faded Apartment
The ink on the parchment was not merely fading; it was dying, a slow, chemical suffocation that turned the crisp, authoritative strokes of the Law into a pale, ghostly whisper, and I watched it happen with the helpless, aching precision of a man who has spent forty years guarding a door that no longer exists. I am Sir Alistair Thorne, Keeper of the Imperial Archives, a title that once carried...
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