The Faded Root
The silence in the reading room was not empty, but heavy, a physical pressure that sat on your chest like a wet wool coat. You looked up from the ledger, the pen still wet in your hand, and watched as the edge of the first-edition Hemingway you had been cataloging began to curl, the paper turning the color of old bone before it simply ceased to exist, leaving behind a faint, acrid smell of...
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