The Distant Legend
The dark liquid is thick, viscous, and smells faintly of turpentine and old pennies. It sits on page fourteen of the 1943 fire report, a single, perfect circle blotting out the name of the third casualty, a boy named Thomas who was only six years old. You hold the page up to the fluorescent light of your office, the kind that hums at a frequency just below hearing and makes your teeth ache by...
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