The Faded Root
The ink on the ledger is not dry, but you can already feel it bleeding into the skin of the book, a dark, wet stain that mirrors the bruise forming under your eye. You sit in the back room of the counting house, the air thick with the smell of old paper and the metallic tang of fear, and you watch the clock on the wall tick with the heavy, indifferent rhythm of a heart that has stopped beating....
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