The Faded Attic
The rain hit the glass with a sound like gravel. Elias stood in the hallway, watching the ceiling tiles of the East Wing buckle and tear. Plaster dust drifted down, settling on his wet shoulders, a fine gray snow that smelled of old paper and wet stone. The alarm was a high, thin scream that cut through the noise of the collapsing roof. He did not run. He walked toward the archive room, his...
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