The Wistful Witness
The air in the archive room had a specific, metallic taste, like sucking on a copper penny, and I knew with a certainty that bypassed thought that Elara was standing just behind my left shoulder, her presence marked not by a ghostly form but by a localized drop in temperature that turned my breath into small, white plumes of steam. I was forty years old, a professor of history at Blackwood...
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