The Pale Dance
The ink in the pot had turned to slush, a gray paste that refused to flow, and I counted the seconds between my heartbeats as I tried to force the nib to yield. Three hundred and twelve hours since the heating stopped, I had calculated, and the cold in the library was no longer a temperature but a presence, a wet weight pressing against the ribs of the building. I am Elias, an archivist of...
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