The Faded Portrait
The candle flame in the archive of Blackwood Hall trembled, casting long, shivering shadows against the rows of leather-bound ledgers that lined the damp stone walls. Elias Ashworth, a junior clerk of forty years whose hands were perpetually stained with ink and whose back ached from the cold, ran his fingers along the cracked spine of a ledger from 1894. It was a mundane task, the sorting of...
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