The Wistful Saga
The ledger had three hundred and twelve pages, and I had counted them twice, my breath fogging in the cold air of the church archive. I am forty-two years old, a historian by trade and a liar by necessity, and my hands shake so badly that I must press them flat against the oak table to keep the ink from blurring. The tremor is a betrayal, a physical admission of the decay that the town council...
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