The Pale Tower
You sit in the center of the room, the air thick with the scent of damp wool and old paper, and you are trying to remember why you are here. The clock on the mantle ticks with a heavy, rhythmic insistence, marking the passage of seconds that feel like minutes, hours, days. You are the town’s historian, or at least the person who claims the title, and for thirty years you have cataloged the...
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