The Faded Guest
The ink had dried on the ledger for three days, a dark, crusty scar across the parchment, yet the smell of iron and old dust still clung to my fingers, a metallic tang that coated the back of my throat like a forgotten grief, and I stood there in the dim, vaulted hall of the Archive, where the shadows stretched long and thin across the stone floor like the fingers of ghosts reaching out for...
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