The Faded Portrait
The rain hammered against the glass roof of the archive, a relentless, rhythmic drumming that sounded like the ticking of a thousand broken clocks. I stood before the central atrium, my reflection warped in the wet panes, a ghost among the ghosts. The air smelled of damp wool and old paper, a scent that had seeped into my skin over the last decade until it was indistinguishable from my own...
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