The Distant Clue
The ink was still wet on the ledger when the first tear appeared in the fabric of the room, a jagged, silent rupture that did not bleed but rather exhaled a cold, metallic scent of old copper and forgotten archives, and I stood there, my quill hovering like a paralyzed insect above the parchment, watching as the walls of the Department of Historical Records, that vast, windowless cathedral of...
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