The Faded Apartment
The scratching began at four in the afternoon, a rhythmic, dry scraping that echoed the scratch of your own quill against the vellum, a sound so precise and immediate that you paused, holding the nib suspended over the ledger, waiting for the next mark to coincide with your next stroke. You are Elias Vane, thirty-two years old, a clerk of the fourth rank in the Ministry of Archives, a man whose...
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