The Pale Exile
March 12, 2024. The needle slips. I catch it before it pierces my thumb, but the motion is a betrayal. My hand is a traitor. I am forty-two, a restorer of antique books, and I am failing at the one task that defines my utility. The ledger lies open on the workbench, its spine cracked, its pages brittle as autumn leaves. It is a 19th-century record of my father’s firm, Whitmore & Sons. The...
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