The Wistful Mountain
The ledger was not a book, Elias thought, though it looked exactly like one, bound in cracked leather that smelled of damp earth and old pennies. It sat on the oak desk of Mr. Vance, the senior archivist, its pages rustling with a sound like dry leaves skittering across a grave. Elias, thirty-two and junior enough to still believe that competence was a currency he could mint in his own image,...
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