The Faded Chronicle
The fluorescent lights in the basement archive hummed with a frequency that seemed to vibrate in my molars, a low, persistent thrum that I had long since learned to ignore, much like the ache in my knees or the quiet, persistent fear that I was wasting the best years of my life in a room that smelled of decaying paper and old dust. I sat at the long, scarred oak table, my hands flat against the...
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