The Wistful Silence
The dust in the archive did not merely settle; it accumulated with a geological patience that felt like a judgment hanging over every shelf, every leather-bound spine, every faint whisper of paper turning in the still air. I had been here for three days, a shadow among shadows, tasked with the mundane, soul-crushing work of cataloging the correspondence of Lord Alistair Thorne, a man whose name...
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