The Wistful Skyline
The inventory sheet had forty-two lines, and Elias Thorne had filled in thirty-eight of them before the first tremor of the fever took hold of his hands. The paper was cheap, the kind the municipal archive bought in bulk for five cents a pad, and it smelled of stale coffee and the particular, dry dust that settled on books left too long in the dark. He rubbed his eyes with the back of a wrist...
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