The Pale Tale
The ivy on the east wall of the municipal building had been dead for three years, a skeletal, rust-colored web clinging to the brickwork like the veins of a corpse that refused to dissolve, and I watched it from my desk, feeling the dry, brittle tension of the plant in my own knuckles as I held my pen. The air in the archives smelled of dust and old paper, a cloying, sweet scent that seemed to...
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