The Distant Ghost
The cursor blinks. It blinks again, a rhythmic, mocking pulse against the black void of the screen, and you reach out to type the final entry for the Oak Street demolition file. Your finger hovers over the keyboard, trembling slightly in the dry, recycled air of the basement archive. The smell hits you first: a sharp, metallic tang, like ozone and old blood, mixed with the dusty sweetness of...
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