The Distant Temple
The air in the cellar was thick with the scent of wet limestone and old paper. You sat in the corner, your back against the cold stone, your uniform still bearing the dust of the road. It was a Tuesday. Or perhaps a Wednesday. Time had grown slippery in this place, stretching like taffy under the weight of the silence. Above you, the city of Ashworth churned on, indifferent to the small, sealed...
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