The Pale Garden
The air in the University of St. Jude’s Institute for Advanced Philological Research was not merely stale; it was calcified. It tasted of chalk dust, old paper, and the specific, metallic tang of intellectual stagnation. I sat at my desk, the mahogany worn smooth by the elbows of three centuries of scholars, and watched the rain streak the high, arched windows. Outside, the gothic spires of the...
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