The Distant Temple
The termination notice lay on the desk, the paper thin as onion skin, the ink still wet enough to smell of iron. I did not sign it. I picked up the fountain pen, a heavy Montblanc with a nib that scratched like a fingernail on glass, and I held it over the signature line, hovering. The clock on the wall ticked, a mechanical heartbeat in the silence of the archive room. Outside, the wind tore at...
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