The Faded Road
The black wax was wet. Elara Vance pressed her thumb against the seal on the ledger, the ink of the date three days prior still fresh under her fingernails, and felt the cold viscosity of it seep into the skin, a tactile violation that defied the sterile, climate-controlled air of the St. Jude’s Municipal Records Office. She had locked that specific volume, the master index of deceased...
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