The Distant Temple
The Ledger did not bleed, but it wept ink. You watched the black stain spread across the vellum page, a slow, viscous bloom that defied the logic of paper and pigment. It was a Tuesday in November, 1912, and the heating system in the Meridian Insurance Bureau groaned like a dying beast, yet the air in your office remained stagnant, thick with the scent of old varnish and impending ruin. You...
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