The Wistful Saga
You are standing in the archive room, and the air tastes of dust and old paper, a dry, suffocating tang that coats the back of your throat, and you are trying to remember why you are here, why your hands are trembling so violently that you cannot hold the heavy brass key steady in your palm, why the clock on the wall ticks with a rhythmic, mechanical thud that seems to echo inside your own...
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