The Distant Clue
The ink on the ledger is still wet when you find it, a dark smear against the cream paper that looks less like a record of debt and more like a bruise. You are sitting in the office of the Ministry of Cultural Heritage, a room that smells of old dust and lemon polish, and the air is so thick with the weight of tradition that it feels like breathing through a wet wool blanket. Outside, the...
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