The Pale Altar
The box of files was heavy, a dense block of cardboard and paper that smelled of dust and stale coffee. Margaret Holloway lifted it from the center of her office desk, the motion sending a sharp, electric jolt up her spine that settled deep in her lower back. She was forty-five, an archivist of mid-level rank, and her body was beginning to betray her with a slow, relentless decay that no amount...
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