The Pale Dance
The fluorescent light in the basement office hummed, a low, electric drone that seemed to vibrate in Arthur’s teeth. He stared at the spreadsheet on his screen, the numbers blurring into a grey haze that matched the dust motes dancing in the single beam of light cutting through the grime on the windowless room’s only skylight. It was November, 1912, and the cold in the building was a physical...
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