The Distant Wound
The scratch mark was fresh, the wood fibers pale and wet against the dark oak of the crypt door. Elias held his thumb against the groove, feeling the roughness of the splinter, and the damp cold of the cellar seeped through the wool of his sleeve. He was forty years old, a junior archivist in a house that had outlived its purpose, and the only thing he wanted was the ledger his father had...
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