The Wistful Mountain
The morning light in the Hall of Records did not shine so much as it pooled, a thick, amber liquid that settled in the crevices of the mahogany desks and the spines of leather-bound ledgers. Arthur Penhaligon, the Chief Archivist, moved through this suspended time with the measured grace of a man who had long ago ceased to fight against the current of his own existence. He was fifty-eight, a...
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