The Faded Guest
The ledger of hours stood on the desk, its pages swollen with the damp of the cellar, and Arthur Vane counted the entries with a thumb that had long since lost the softness of youth. Twenty years of night shifts, four thousand and thirty-two hours of watching the boilers breathe, each line a debt paid in sleep and silence. Mr. Sterling sat across from him, the light of the gas lamp catching the...
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