The Pale Tale
"You are the leak," said the Archivist. He did not raise his voice. He did not need to. The air in the Vault was thick with the smell of dry rot and iron filings. It tasted like old pennies. Like blood. I stood before the glass case. My hands were trembling. Not from cold. The climate control held the room at a constant, sterile sixty-eight degrees. I trembled because I knew he was right. I am...
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