The Wistful Witness
The air in the sub-basement of the St. Jude’s Archive was thick with the scent of damp wool and decaying paper, a heavy, suffocating perfume that seemed to press against the eardrums like a physical weight. We were five in total, huddled around a table of warped oak that groaned under the strain of the century-old ledgers we had dragged from the darkness, the single bare bulb swinging gently...
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