The Faded Chronicle
"You kept it," I said, my voice sounding thin and foreign in the damp air of the basement archive. "You kept the waistcoat." Margaret Holloway did not look up from the ledger she was balancing on the desk, her pen scratching a steady, rhythmic line across the paper. The fluorescent lights above us hummed with a low, persistent buzz that seemed to vibrate in my teeth. I stood there, clutching...
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