The Wistful Saga
October 14, 1904 My hands have begun to tremble again. It is a cold, fine shivering that starts in the fingertips and works its way up the wrist, as if the blood itself has turned to ice. I sit in my study, the gaslight hissing softly in the corner, and I look at the limestone samples laid out on my desk. They are dull grey, unremarkable things, yet I know what lies within them. I know what...
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