The Faded Quadrant
The pen was already in my hand, the ink wet and black as a bruise, when the hum started. It wasn’t a sound you heard so much as felt, a vibration in the molars, a static charge that made the hair on my forearms stand up and itch. I was in the basement office of the Halloway Textile Mill, surrounded by the smell of damp wool and machine oil, trying to finalize the ledger that would prove Silas...
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