The Distant Crown
The dust in the basement of St. Jude’s Institute did not merely settle; it hung in the air like a suspended judgment, thick and gray, coating the back of my throat with a grit that tasted of old paper and decay. I am Elias Thorne, a senior archivist of forty-two years, and I am dying, or at least that is what Dr. Aris tells me every time he visits my desk, his face a mask of professional...
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