The Faded Apartment
The letter lay on the desk, its edges soft and brown from years of handling, the ink faded to a ghostly grey. Elias Thorne smoothed the paper with his thumb, feeling the slight give of the parchment beneath his skin. He was forty-two, and his hands, which had cataloged three hundred and twelve volumes this month alone, were trembling. The audit was in four days. If the new medieval acquisitions...
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