The Pale Mist
The file for Arthur Vane sat on the desk, yellowed at the edges, smelling of damp wool and old ink. I held the pen, the nib hovering over the signature line, my hand trembling not from the cold but from the sudden, sharp throb in my left temple. Twenty years at the Meridian Insurance Exchange, and I had learned to read the air before I read the paper. Today, the air in the basement archive was...
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