The Wistful Witness
The ink in the pen was running dry, a thin, rust-colored line that required a steady, practiced pressure to flow. You held the stylus over the ledger, the tip trembling slightly not from age, but from the low-frequency hum that had been vibrating in the plaster of the customs house for three days. The sound was a physical thing, a pressure behind your sternum that made your teeth ache. You were...
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