The Pale Altar
The air in the archive room tasted of dust and old paper, a dry, choking flavor that coated the back of my throat. I sat alone at the long oak table, the only light coming from a single, flickering bulb above the central stack of files. My father’s ledger lay open before me, its leather cover worn smooth by years of careful handling. The pages were brittle, the ink faded to a pale grey, but the...
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