The Pale Exile
The ink on the ledger pages had a life of its own, a dark, viscous pulse that seemed to breathe with the rhythm of the house. I sat in the study, the air thick with the scent of old paper and damp wool, watching the numbers settle. They were not merely figures, but a record of absence, a tally of what had been lost and what remained to be mourned. My hands, stained with the ghost of graphite...
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