The Faded Frequency
March 14, 1924. I am scrubbing the ink from the ledger with a rag that has been used so many times it has lost its weave, the fibers turning into a gray sludge under my thumb. The room is cold, a damp chill that seeps through the floorboards and settles in the joints of my knees, but my hands are hot with the friction of the work. Dr. Aris is standing by the window, his back to me, watching the...
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