The Distant Nightmare
The frost had not yet melted from the ivy on the library wall when I arrived, but the air inside was thick with the dust of old pages and the specific, sterile chill of a place that no longer breathes. I am Dr. Arthur Penhaligon, or rather, I was. For three decades, I held the chair of Comparative Linguistics at this small, damp university town where the fog rolls in from the moor like a slow,...
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