The Golden Scar
The stone of the archive building had a way of absorbing sound. It swallowed the clatter of the trolley, the rustle of my coat, and the low, anxious hum of the other clerks who worked the lower floors. I kept my head down. My name was Elias Thorne, and I was the Keeper of Records, a title that sounded more important than the reality, which was simply sorting the accumulated paper waste of a...
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