The Pale Mist
The ink in my pen has dried into a rust-colored crust, much like the pages I am trying to save. I have been at this desk for fourteen hours, the gaslight hissing its thin, metallic breath above me, illuminating the water-damaged ledger of 1894 that Director Halloway has ordered me to discard. He calls it sentimental clutter, a relic of a bygone era that clogs the new industrial efficiency...
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