The Faded Quadrant
The ledger required exactly one hundred and forty-four entries to be completed before the sun rose, a count that had consumed the last three nights of Thomas’s twelve-year life, each line scratched into the damp parchment with a quill that felt less like a writing instrument and more like a splinter driven into the meat of his thumb. The cellar of the tannery on Tanner’s Row smelled of lye and...
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