The Faded Frequency
The ink is still wet on the third page of my journal, and the smell of iron in the air has not yet faded. It is a smell that belongs to old blood and older machines, a scent that has seeped into the pores of this stone chamber. I write this not for publication, but for the record, for the few who might one day understand why the silence was so loud. We are the last of the Archivists, or so we...
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