The Pale Bridge
The ink on the ledger page is still wet, a dark, bleeding bruise against the cream-colored paper, and you are holding the quill with fingers that have begun to tremble, the fine hairs on your arms standing up in a chill that has nothing to do with the drafty air of the counting house. You look down at the numbers, the careful, precise sums that represent the life’s work of forty years, and you...
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