The Pale Bridge
The ink began to bleed out of my hands before I even touched the pen. It was a slow, viscous weeping of black fluid, seeping through the pores of my skin, darkening the white cotton of my shirt cuffs and pooling in the creases of my knuckles. I stood in the center of the archival basement, surrounded by the hum of climate-control units and the smell of decaying paper, and watched my life’s work...
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