The Pale Path
The air in the counting house was thick with the smell of wet wool and cold tea. It was a Tuesday, or perhaps a Wednesday. Time had become a fluid thing inside the walls of Whitmore & Sons, a viscous substance that clung to the ledger books and the heavy oak desks. I sat at my post, the pen hovering over the paper, waiting for the ink to dry. It was a small act of rebellion. A pause in the...
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