The Golden Circuit
The letter is dated October the twelfth. You write it with the left hand, the one that still obeys, though the fingers twitch with a faint, electric spasm that makes the ink bleed into the fibers of the paper. The Royal Institute of Antiquities sits heavy in the fog outside your window, a block of gray stone that feels less like a building and more like a tomb waiting for its occupant. You are...
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