The Pale Verdict
The banquet hall of the St. Jude’s Historical Society smelled of stale wine and old paper, a scent that had long since become indistinguishable from the smell of your own life. You stood in the corner, watching the senior archivists toast to the acquisition of the Whispering Ledger, their voices a dull roar that failed to reach the hollow space in your chest. You wanted tenure. You wanted the...
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