The Faded Paradox
The rain had not stopped for three days, turning the cobblestones outside the Harrington & Vane archive into a slick, grey mirror that reflected the flickering gaslight of the streetlamps. You stood before the heavy oak door of your office, the brass handle cold and unyielding against your palm, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs that felt less like blood and more like a...
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