The Faded Attic
The ink on the contract was still wet when the argument started, a stark, black smear against the cream-colored parchment that seemed to absorb the light in the small, sterile office. I stood before the desk of Mr. Sterling, the head of the Archives, my hands trembling not from fear, but from a vibration that lived in my marrow, a hum of anticipation that had kept me awake for three nights. I...
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