The Distant Legend
The clock on the wall of the archive room ticked with a rhythm that felt less like time and more like a heartbeat slowing down. Margaret sat at her desk, the wood worn smooth by decades of elbows and ink-stained hands. The room was a cube of dust and silence, high windows letting in a pale, late afternoon light that caught the motes dancing in the air. She was fifty-eight. Her back ached when...
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