The Pale Garden
The count had reached four hundred and twelve hours since Arthur Vane died, a number you kept in the back of your mind like a stone in a shoe, grinding against the soft tissue of your ambition. You were Elias Thorne, forty-two, a senior archivist at the Blackwood Institute, and you wanted the final, illegible entry in Vane’s journal more than you wanted your own next breath, because that entry...
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