The Pale Tale
The coffee in the ceramic mug was cold, a dark, stagnant pool that reflected the fluorescent hum of the ceiling tiles. Julian sat in his office, a small, windowless box on the fourth floor of the University’s Humanities Annex, and stared at the object on his desk. It was a simple thing, a brass astrolabe, tarnished green with age, its etched stars blurred by time. It did not belong to him. It...
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