The Distant Summer
"The stone is wrong." Maren’s voice was low. It did not rise above the hum of the ventilation shafts. It did not break the silence that had settled over the archive like a heavy, grey wool blanket. She stood before the central pillar, her fingers resting on the cold limestone. The stone was wrong. It was not just chipped. It was not just stained by the damp that seeped from the northern walls....
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