The Distant Ghost
The ink on my fingers never truly washes off. It is a bruise that lives under the skin, a dark tide that rises with the dampness of the cellar where we keep the archives. I am Margaret Holloway, Senior Archivist, and I have spent thirty years in this limestone building, a place that smells of vinegar and decay, of paper turning to dust before it can speak. We call it the Hall of Records, but to...
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