The Pale Garden
The autumn wind had a particular bite this year, a sharp, metallic tang that seemed to seep through the very stones of the university library, settling into the joints of my bones and the pages of the books I had sworn to protect. I am Elias Thorne, an archivist of forty years, and I have spent the last three months in a state of suspended animation, waiting for the cold to pass, but it has...
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