The Wistful Saga
The rain against the window of the archive room does not sound like rain. It sounds like a thousand small, dry bones breaking. You sit in the center of the room, a circle of dust and silence, while the city of Bristol roars outside, indifferent to the quiet rot of history inside. You are the junior archivist. You have been here for three years, long enough to know that the paper has a pulse,...
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