The Pale Letter
The office is a tomb of glass and steel, suspended in a twilight that never fully darkens, and you are standing by the window where the city below churns like a bowl of gray soup, the rain smearing the lights into long, weeping streaks of amber and violet, while the air inside remains sterile, cold, and smelling faintly of ozone and the dust of old paper. You are a clerk, a functionary of the...
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