The Pale Altar
The Pale Altar ledger was not a book, but a slab of bone-white parchment bound in leather that felt uncomfortably like skin. It sat on my desk in the Municipal Records Office, a relic of the city’s founding, and I had been assigned to digitize it for the pension fund. I was forty-two, an archivist of middling rank, and my heart had begun to stutter three months prior, a rhythm that matched the...
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