The Faded Attic
You are going to have to stop touching the spines. I looked up from the ledger, my pen hovering over the column for binding repairs, and watched the dark smear spread across the leather cover of the 1890s volume. It was not water. It was not wine. It was a thick, viscous ink that oozed from the creases like a wound refusing to close. I had been working in the Attic for three weeks, cataloging...
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