The Wistful Mountain
The ink was already bleeding into the parchment before Elias Thorne realized he had been holding the quill for three days. Or perhaps it had only been three minutes. Time in the Archive of Silences did not move in lines; it pooled, like stagnant water in a cistern, thick and heavy with the scent of iron and old paper. Elias sat at his desk, the lowest of the low, a clerk of the Fourth Division,...
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