The Faded Dust

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2026-08-18 13:31:58 -

The Faded Dust

The ink was dry. I knew this because the smell of it had vanished, replaced by the stale, metallic tang of fear. I sat in my study, the room I had curated with the precision of a surgeon and the soul of a monk. Books lined the walls, not as decoration, but as testimony. Each spine a life, each page a breath. I was a man who lived in text. I believed that language could hold the world together...

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