The Wistful Saga
The inkwell sat on the desk like a black eye, and Arthur Penhaligon counted the seconds between the ticks of the wall clock, each one a distinct, metallic strike that seemed to hammer the tremor in his left hand. He had been an archivist for thirty-one years, a tenure built on the quiet accumulation of facts, yet now his fingers, which had once sorted the brittle ledgers of the city’s grain...
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