The Distant Affair
Usha Ansari had not touched the ledger in three days, but the dampness of it still clung to her fingers, a cold that no fire could burn away. She remembered the afternoon the water first seeped through the ceiling of the sub-basement, a slow, grey weeping that turned the paper into pulp. It was a Tuesday, the kind of heavy, airless day that precedes a storm, and the library smelled of wet wool...
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