The Faded River
The library smelled of dry dust and the slow, inevitable decay of paper, a scent that had long since ceased to be merely olfactory and had instead become a tactile presence, pressing against the back of my throat like a swallowed stone. I sat in the deep, velvet chair of the archives room, the kind of chair designed to hold a person still, to cradle them in a sort of suspended animation, and I...
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