The Distant Legend
The candle gutters. It is a small flame, trembling in the draft that leaks from the stone walls of the archive. I watch it die, then revive, then die again. My hands are shaking. They have been shaking for three hours. I am a clerk. I am Thomas. I am old. My joints ache with a dull, persistent rhythm, like a clock ticking inside my bones. I have spent forty years in this room. I have cataloged...
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