The Distant Ghost
The cold in the basement was not the kind that settled into your bones; it was a wet, clinging damp that seemed to seep out of the paper itself. I held the spine of the 1924 Meridian Ledger, my fingers numb, watching the edge of the page curl inward like a dying leaf. "It’s just humidity, Mara," I said, my voice sounding thin in the concrete silence. "The HVAC system has been failing since the...
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