The Pale Altar

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2026-08-23 07:26:24 -

The Pale Altar

The ink bled before the pen touched the paper. I was calculating the mortality tables for the Meridian Mutual. The year was 1912. The air in the office tasted of chalk dust and old tobacco, a dry, suffocating scent that coated the back of my throat. I rubbed my eyes. My hands trembled. Not from cold. From the weight of the numbers. I looked down at the ledger. A single drop of crimson had...

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