The Pale Letter
The rain had not stopped for three days, a ceaseless, grey curtain that turned the world outside your window into a smear of mud and slate, and you sat in the cramped, damp office of the university, the smell of wet wool and old paper clinging to your skin like a second, heavier coat. You were a scholar of minor things, a man who catalogued the lives of the dead in the archives of a city that...
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