The Pale Meridian
The air in the basement of the Whitmore & Sons Archive smelled of damp limestone and the sharp, metallic tang of old ink, a scent that had seeped into the fibers of my suit jacket over the last three decades until it became part of my own skin, a second odor that no amount of lavender soap could scrub away. I stood before the Great Ledger, a monolithic book bound in cracked leather that had...
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