The Pale Fracture
The dust does not settle in the cellar; it hangs in the stagnant air like a fine, gray snow that never melts, coating your eyelashes and the ridges of your nose with a layer of soot that tastes of old paper and iron. You are sitting on the floor, your back against the cold brick wall, holding the ledger in your lap. The book is heavy, bound in cracked leather that has peeled away to reveal the...
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