The Pale Letter
March 14 I counted the hours until my shift ended, six in total, and the weight of them was a physical thing, pressing against my sternum like a wet wool coat. I am Elias Thorne, thirty-two years old, a junior archivist at the City Hall, and for the last three days I have been accused of forging the will of Arthur Penhaligon, a man whose estate was worth more than my entire life’s earnings...
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