The Distant Legend
The tip of the fountain pen hovered a millimeter above the lined page, the nib dry, the ink a dried scab of black. Elias Thorne, fifty-two years old and retired from the municipal archive three years prior, stared at the blank space where the final paragraph of his definitive history of Harrowgate’s founding should have been, his hand trembling not from age but from the sheer, crushing weight...
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