The Wistful Skyline
The clock on the wall ticked with a heavy, wet sound, each second marking a small theft of time from the night. You counted the hours as you counted the files, four hours left until dawn, three hours left until the catalog was done, two hours left until your hands stopped shaking. The basement of the St. Jude’s Historical Society was a sealed box of concrete and dust, a place where the air...
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