The Distant Nightmare
The rain had been falling on the slate roof of the Municipal Archive for three days, a steady, grey drumbeat that Elias Thorne found more comforting than the silence of his own office. At fifty, his joints ached in the damp, a physical reminder of the years he had spent hunched over brittle parchment and crumbling ledgers. He was not a man who sought the spotlight, but he did seek accuracy, and...
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