The Pale Tower
The ink on the ledger was still wet, glistening like a fresh wound under the gaslight, and I could have sworn I smelled the iron tang of it, a scent that seemed to rise from the paper itself to coat my tongue with a metallic bitterness. It was a strange thing, this obsession with the written word, this compulsion to bind the chaotic, screaming reality of the world into neat, justified columns...
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