The Pale Tower
The ink freezes before the nib touches the paper. You watch it happen, that thick, black sludge refusing to flow, turning into a solid ridge on the tip of your pen. It is 3:00 AM in the Municipal Debt Tower, and the gas lamps hiss their low, constant threat against the silence of the sealed room. You are thirty years old, and you have been working the night shift for four years, cataloging the...
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