The Distant Ghost
The ink on the ledger did not dry; it bled. It was a thick, viscous black that seeped through the heavy cotton paper of the Imperial Ministry’s central registry, pooling in the creases of the page like wet blood, and when you leaned in close enough to smell the damp earth of it, you could swear it whispered the names of men who had been dead for a decade. You are Elias Thorne, twelve years old,...
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