The Golden Farce
Thorne. You’re late. Halloway’s voice cut through the static of the repository, sharp and dry as the dust that coated the shelves. I straightened my spine, feeling the ache in my lower back that had become a permanent resident, a lodger who refused to pay rent. The night shift at the St. Jude’s Municipal Repository was not a job; it was a penance, a slow grinding of the soul against the...
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