The Distant Temple
The clock on the wall above the mahogany desk ticks with a rhythm that feels less like time and more like the slow, rhythmic squeezing of a bruise. You are sitting in a chair that is too small for your knees, your hands resting on your thighs, palms flat, fingers splayed as if trying to anchor yourself to the floorboards. The air in the office is thick, smelling of stale tobacco, old paper, and...
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