The Wistful Skyline
The glue stick rotated between my thumb and forefinger, a dry, white cylinder that had lost its adhesive days ago, yet I kept turning it, feeling the smooth plastic against the roughness of my skin. The Silent Codex lay open on the oak table, its leather cover stiff with age, the spine cracked but holding. I was binding the final section, the Debtors ledger, and the ink on page four hundred and...
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