The Distant Legend
The brass handle of the door at the end of the corridor was worn smooth by a decade of nervous hands, its gold leaf flaking off in tiny, dry scales that fell onto the linoleum like dead skin. Arthur Penhaligon stood before it, his fingers hovering inches from the metal, trembling with a fatigue that seemed to have settled into his very bones. He was not a man of grand gestures, nor had he ever...
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