The Faded Sutra
The air in the sub-basement repository of the Municipal Historical Society does not smell of dust, as one might expect from a place dedicated to the preservation of the past, but rather of wet wool, stagnant water, and the faint, metallic tang of ozone that bleeds from the ventilation shafts, a smell that has seeped into the very fibers of your cardigan and the pores of your skin over the last...
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