The Distant Temple
The ledger book lay open on the scarred oak desk, its pages swollen with the dampness of the November fog that pressed against the single, grimy window of the municipal archive, and Arthur Penhaligon, Senior Archivist and Self-Appointed Guardian of the City’s Memory, sat with his eyes fixed not on the ink but on the dust motes dancing in the pale, dying light, for he had understood, with the...
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