The Wistful Silence
The ink on the parchment was still wet when the first crack appeared in the seal. Arthur Penhaligon stood before the heavy oak desk, his fingers trembling not from the cold that seeped through the floorboards of the municipal hall, but from a sudden, violent dissonance in his chest. He was a man of contracts, of ledgers, of the quiet, ironclad logic of trade. Yet here, in the heart of the city,...
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