The Faded Guest
The vial was cold against my palm, the glass sweating a fine condensation that smelled of crushed mint and stale iron. I was three hours into the cataloging of Director Halloway’s final ledger, my fingers stained with the acidic residue of the binding glue, when the compartment in the desk gave way with a soft, wooden click. It was a small space, barely large enough for a hand, lined with...
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