The Pale Dance
The air in the cellar was thick, tasting of damp limestone and the sharp, metallic tang of the new ink I had just mixed. It was a smell that had seeped into the weave of my wool coat and settled into the creases of my skin, a scent that no amount of scrubbing with lye could quite erase. I sat at my heavy oak desk, the wood darkened by decades of my own hands moving across it, and I looked down...
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