The Faded Dust
The chandelier in the main reading room of the Harrowgate Institute did not swing, yet the light it cast seemed to breathe, a slow, rhythmic pulse that Elias Thorne had learned to ignore over his twenty years of service, though tonight, as he adjusted the leather-bound spines of the Vane collection, the air grew sharp with the scent of ozone and a chill that seeped through his cardigan to bite...
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