The Faded Attic
The dust in the library did not settle; it hovered, a perpetual, golden suspension that seemed to hold the very air in a state of suspended animation. Professor Alistair Thorne moved through the stacks with the careful, deliberate gait of a man walking on ice, his fingers trailing along the spines of leather-bound volumes that smelled of vanilla and decay. He was a scholar of the obscure, a man...
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