The Pale Tower
You are the man who knows too much about the old library. It is not a grand building, not really. It is a squat, brick rectangle sitting in the center of Harrowgate, a town that smells permanently of damp wool and burnt toast. But you have spent thirty years mapping its internal architecture, not with blueprints, but with memory. You know which floorboard creaks under the weight of guilt, which...
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